Gone Wylde 10: Memories & Decisions
by Concolor44
Summary: Things have taken a turn for the weird. Karl's choices have a shattering impact on Wendy, who has some decisions of her own to make. Rated for violence and angst.
1. Chapter 1 Vignettes  Redux Part A

_**Chapter 1 – Vignettes – Redux – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**Endurance is nobler than strength and patience than beauty.**

_**-John Ruskin**_

##

_** Friday 06 October 2017 – Los Angeles – 1:20pm **_

Capra re-knotted his tie for the third time and got Trina's attention. "Is dis any betteh?"

Giving him a critical once-over, she nodded. "You'll do. The doctors we'll be talking to have never dealt with the ISB before, so they don't know what to expect. Should be a cakewalk." She tapped her earpiece and asked, "How's the Tank, Wayne?"

The meerkat had drawn the short straw concerning the care and feeding of the pair of med-techs that were required to operate the mobile version of the 'Tank' where Gamma would be held for the return trip. "You can go ahead and get our boy. Jazzy says the Tank's running on the green, even though we tried our best to kill it."

Trina muttered, "Jazzy's gonna get my foot up his ass if he doesn't cut that crap out."

"Now Trina," cautioned Rajid, "as I said before, that is simply a character trait. He worries about his machine because he believes he has to. If he did not worry, something terrible would happen to it; the force of his concern for it keeps it safe. There is no personal insult in his statement. It is in his nature, nothing more."

"It's in his nature to irritate the living shit out of me with his condescending attitude. I can put up with a lot of crap if there's some remotely reasonable explanation. But he acts superior when he has nothing to be superior _about!_ And it's gonna get him in a world of hurt if he isn't careful."

Capra shook his heavy head. "He's da tech over da Tank, Trina. Da big doofus in charge. We gotta count on him ta keep Gamma all rosy-fresh on da trip back, even if he is a woild-class joik, so yas gotta play nice wid 'im, at least fer now."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Hey, ya didn' get tapped ta baby-sit 'im."

Glancing over at their boss, she asked, "You think that was coincidence?"

They looked at Rajid, who feigned indifference, then they grinned at each other.

The mongoose cleared his throat and said, "If there are no objections, let us go in and retrieve Gamma."

Capra held out an arm and said, "Ladies foist."

#

Karl had presented the Cedars Sinai trauma team with a mass of contradictions from the moment he appeared in their ER. The nurse on duty at the time, a veteran of two decades, was relatively familiar with The Redeemer. He'd dropped off enough furs with her, both victims and criminals, that she'd come to view him as something of an ally. But his terse description of how the huge wolverine came to his current state had served only to confuse her. Obviously he'd been tortured, but that wasn't the puzzler. How he hadn't _died_ was the complete mystery, as was the way he soaked up blood. She had known of burn victims whose bodies could absorb an unusual amount of fluid, but this guy had taken better than one unit an hour since showing up halfway through Thursday's graveyard shift. Droves of doctors kept dropping in to "consult" on the case, examining the comatose fellow and pumping her for what little information she'd been given. After the second such group grilled her, she sat down and wrote out everything she knew, printed off several hardcopies, and simply passed them out as needed, eventually leaving a stack of them on the cart beside Karl's bed.

Rajid picked up one and scanned it while Capra and Trina dealt with the resident and the current nursing shift. To start with, the hospital staff adamantly refused to release the wolverine on the grounds that he'd expire within minutes. But ISB credentials, and a long list of Karl's "crimes", fabricated for the purpose of extradition, quickly changed their minds. Within half an hour they had Karl comfortably ensconced in the tank and were on their way to a government airfield.

##

**The law does not pretend to punish everything that is dishonest. **

**That would seriously interfere with business.**

_**-Clarence Darrow**_

##

_** Vergennes, Vermont – 3:30pm **_

The half-dozen furs shambled into the bare, white room and stood in a line against one wall. After several seconds an electronically amplified voice directed, "Turn to the front. Eyes forward."

The shabby fellows complied.

"Take your time, Ms. Vison."

"No need." Ellen leaned her paws on the rail in front of the one-way mirror. "Number two. Clip job or no clip job, I'd recognize that low-life son of a bitch anywhere."

The detective spoke briefly into his com unit and two other officers quickly escorted Fernando Colón out to a holding cell.

Ellen asked, "Any word about what he did with my mother's money?"

"Not yet. But he doesn't have that many avenues. Now that we have him, and we know where he's been hiding for the last few months, there's a decent chance of recovering it. Some of it, anyhow."

"That's good." Her eyes stayed glued to the door through which the ocelot had passed.

The hard edge on the slender mink's voice was not lost on Detective Gerald Smoot. He moved around slightly to place himself a bit more firmly in her field of view and said, "I trust you aren't thinking about doing something to him … personally."

Her eyes darted his way. "What made you say that?"

"Experience."

That earned him a nod. "Fair enough. Well … I can't say that the idea hadn't crossed my mind." She scratched absently at the stab wound scar on her shoulder. "I can't even say I'd reject the notion. But you can't convict someone for a pleasant fantasy."

"No, we can't. As long as it _stays_ only a fantasy."

She studied the detective's face for several seconds, picked a speck of lint off his lapel, and asked, "What would be his likely sentence, assuming we get a conviction?"

"Well … um, with conspiracy, two counts of grand theft, assault and battery of a high and aggravated nature, and attempted murder … that adds up to about twenty-eight to life."

"Let's say he cops a plea. Gets the attempted murder charge reduced to … what would be likely in that case?"

"Simple battery, I'd guess. It would depend on the judge and the lawyer."

"Okay. What would the minimum sentence be then?"

"Eh … with the right jury … maybe ten years."

"What about all the other stuff he racked up? Out of state, I mean."

"Oh, you know about those?"

"Yeah. Extortion and robbery in Mexico, check kiting in North Carolina, and his finger prints are on a pistol that was used in two armed robberies and a murder in Nevada. Even if he gets the minimum sentences here, won't he be extradited for those?"

"He should. That one murder charge waiting on him in Nevada is a capital felony, and those guys don't have much of a sense of humor about the sorts of things he did."

"And they still have the death penalty there, too."

"Which could be a problem. If he gets a decent lawyer, he'd argue that Vermont would be on shaky constitutional ground with that extradition. And I know a few judges that would agree with him."

"So, conceivably, Colon could be out of jail in ten years."

"Um … six, with good behavior."

"I see." Ellen's eyes had not yet broken contact with his. "And do you think that's just?"

"Doesn't matter what I think."

"I believe it does."

"… Okay. Off the record?"

"Very much so."

"I think that would be a hideous miscarriage of justice."

"I agree."

"That still doesn't give you leave to take the law into your own paws."

"No, I suppose it doesn't. But neither does that say I have no other avenues."

"… Such as?"

"I've done a bit of research. Turns out Colon has a price on his head in Chihuahua."

"Ah."

"And I happen to know of a very competent bounty hunter who would be more than happy to deliver his skuzzy ass to those authorities."

"If he was willing to wait that long, you mean."

"Wait? Who said anything about waiting?"

"Now hold on just a minute. Are you saying the bounty hunter would snatch him from police custody?"

"What_ever_ gave you that idea?"

"Pulling some crap like that could get you in a world of hot water if you had any knowledge of it before the fact."

She only gave him an arch smile and a wink before sauntering out the door.

##

**People are born ignorant, not stupid. They are made stupid by education.**

_**-Bertrand Russell**_

##

_** Saturday 07 October 2017 – Carnegie-Mellon University – 10:00am **_

Martin O'Musca looked up from his copy of _Elements of Differential Equations_ when his roommate bumped the door open. The lanky hare caught his eye and said, "A little help?"

"Sorry." Martin quickly rose and trotted over to lend a paw with the half-dozen bags, kicking the door shut in passing. "What be all this?"

"Just a few things for tonight."

Martin's quizzical look prompted Steve to say, "Remember? The party? At Kevin's place?"

"Oh. Right." Surveying the array of food and drink, Martin asked, "Jist how many are s'posed t' _be_ at this party? The whole school?"

"Hey, better safe than sorry. I'd rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it."

"Aye, I'll go along wi' that. To a point." He lifted a brown bag from one of the grocery sacks and pulled a bottle out of it, jerking in surprise when he saw the Jose Cuervo label. "How i' th' name o' th' saints did ye get this? Ye ain't old enow to buy sich!"

"Connections, my man!" He slapped Martin on the shoulder. "It ain't _what_ you know, it's _who_."

"Humph." Setting the bottle on the small table in their kitchenette, he turned to the taller boy and stated, "An' if th' RA happens t' drop by, ye'll have us both kicked out on our ears. I don' like it."

"Then the RA better not find out, eh?" He took the bottle and slipped it into a lower cabinet, behind a roll of garbage bags. "See? Out of sight, out of mind."

"I still don' like it."

"Geez, Martin, what's the big deal? This is part of the college experience! It's what you signed up for."

"Pull the other one."

"Oh, please! You didn't seriously think you were gonna get through school without tyin' one on now and then, did you? That's just crazy talk."

"I did an' I do. In th' ferst place, that stuff'll turn ye brain t' goo an' make it run out ye ears. An' i' th' secont place, I still ain't scoped how ye can _drink_ somethin' what smells as bad as _that_ does."

"Bullshit. I've heard some say it's an acquired taste, but I acquired it the first time I took a sip." He patted the cabinet. "We're moving to Margaritaville tonight, bro!"

"_You_ might be movin'. I'm stayin' put."

"Aw, Martin, come on! You gotta be there!"

"Nope."

"Kevin already asked me and I already told him you'd come."

"Ye need to break th' habit o' makin' promises ye got no chance o' keepin'."

"But he wanted you there specifically! That's how I got an invite."

"An' why would the illustrious Kevin Hollingsworth be wantin' a lowly Frosh at 'is party?"

"A _famous_ lowly Frosh, bro. Famous and smart, with a very cool accent that makes him very much in demand on the party circuit."

"In case it slipped yeh mind, I didn' come t' Carnegie-Mellon fer th' parties. I came fer a degree in Mechanical Engineerin'. An' a snoot full o' The Drop _won'_ help me get it."

"Aw, cripes, Martin! I thought you were Irish! Live a little!"

"Bein' Irish don' make me stupid."

"Oh, so only stupid people drink? That what you're saying?"

Martin shrugged and went back to his desk. "Do what y' want. I got no objections. But I expect th' same from you. Comes Monday, I got a major exam in Diffy-Q's, an' a hangover won' help me pass it."

Steve shook his head and began laying the various food items out on the counter.

##


	2. Chapter 1 Vignettes  Redux Part B

_**Chapter 1 – Vignettes – Redux – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

**Worry is interest paid on trouble before it comes due.**

_**-William R. Inge**_

##

_** near Los Angeles – noon **_

Diedra watched the vixen warily as she toddled across the bedroom. "Still doing okay?"

"No worries." She concentrated on keeping her balance as she walked slowly in as straight a line as she could manage. "I think my proprioceptive sense is pretty much back to normal now."

Clicking her tongue, Diedra opined, "You really got your clock cleaned over there."

"Yeah. But you can believe there won't be a repeat performance."

"I'd hope not."

Wendy fell into the chair she'd been aiming for and drew a deep breath. "That almost doesn't hurt anymore."

Diedra took her a glass of skim milk, which she downed in three long swallows. "Thanks." She set the glass on the floor and rested her head against the back of the chair. "Did Matt say when he'd be back?"

"He had a meeting with the gallery at ten, but he said it probably wouldn't last more than an hour or so. Then he was going to go see about Karl."

Wendy glanced at the clock again, prompting the mongoose to ask, "Would you like for me to call him?"

"No. No, he said he would and I believe him. He'll find out." She closed her eyes and sighed, "It's just hard."

Diedra knelt at her side and put a paw on Wendy's arm. "He'll be okay. You know he will, don't you?"

"Yeah, but …" A flicker of motion caught her attention and Matt was in the room. The vixen leaned forward eagerly. "Did you see him? Did you talk to him? How is he?"

Both paws came up to ward off her questions. "Whoa! Ease up, there. Yes, I saw him; no, I didn't talk to him. He's still unconscious."

"Damn." This was said softly. Wendy put her head in her paws.

"I did talk to Capra, though."

Her face popped back up quickly. "Isn't he the agent that was stalking Karl before the Inn was attacked?"

"I don't know if 'stalking' is precisely the right word. He was keeping tabs on Karl's whereabouts and activities."

"Right. He's the one that warned us as they were about to attack."

"Oh. Yes. That's him."

"So what'd he say?"

"That there was no change. That Karl was in such bad shape from all the torture – and most especially from the starvation – that it would be a while before he came out of it. Days, maybe weeks."

Shoulders drooping, she squeezed her eyes shut and said, very softly, "Damn."

"I know it's hard, Wendy …"

"Yeah. I just said that."

"But they have every confidence that he'll pull through. Capra said they've got every probe and monitor on him known to furkind, and everything is healing. It's slow, but steady. A lot of his skin has re-grown, and the damage to his joints is noticeably less."

"Okay. So it'll just take some time."

"Looks like it, yeah."

"Guess I'll just have to wait it out, then." Wendy nodded and leaned back, a prodigious yawn wrinkling her muzzle. "Damn, I'm sleepy."

"Speaking of healing."

"Yeah, yeah. Eat, sleep, and be merry."

Diedra grinned and said, "Eat, sleep, and get better, you mean."

"Okay, you talked me into it. Whatcha got?"

Matt looked over at his wife. "Wasn't she eating when I left?"

"Mm-hm. And had a substantial snack not an hour ago."

That brought a tired grunt from Wendy. "What'd you expect? I need my six squares a day."

A smirk pulled Matt's mouth to the side. "It's a good thing I'm rich. Lunch, then?"

"Lunch. Definitely."

##

**Let us recollect that peace or war will not always be left to our option;  
><strong>**that however moderate or unambitious we may be,  
><strong>**we cannot count upon the moderation,  
><strong>**or hope to extinguish the ambition of others.**

_**-Alexander Hamilton**_

##

_** near Boston – 5:00pm **_

Ordinarily Rajid didn't mind paperwork. This was due partially to the fact that much of it didn't involve paper, and partially to his penchant for staying abreast of his report deadlines. Most of all, though, it was in his nature to desire tidiness, and an _empty_ report queue was a _tidy_ report queue. Simply put, it made him happy.

Today was not a happy day. His team had been so deeply involved with so many of the issues surrounding the recent upticks in international terrorism that following up on Gamma's personal situation was being relegated to 'spare' time … which usually meant nights and/or weekends. That's why Rajid was here, at the office, late on Saturday afternoon.

However, today it wasn't just Gulo himself that was cluttering up the prim mongoose's in-box; it was all the events and intrigues he was connected with. Their mole that had been in Gafah's palace had heard some things about the dictator's more private activities, most of them only rumor, but enough of them concerning the same concepts that Rajid felt they needed investigation. What he had found out since then left him very uneasy indeed.

He knew the bodies of the slain members of Omicron had been recovered, and that the mad jackal had their heads on display. That much was basic information. But whereas the other intelligence organizations had decided that the trophy case was the end of it, Rajid was now nearly convinced that Gafah was working on a way to extract Omicron's secrets from the corpses. And that could _not_ be allowed to happen. Whether the dictator's goal was to create his own army of super-soldiers, or simply use the techniques on himself, the outcome would not bode well for the rest of the world.

In the two days since Matt had appeared in his kitchen, Rajid had spared no effort in gathering what could be discovered about the – well, for want of a better term, the attack on Gafah's capitol city. Matt had more than decimated the regular troops garrisoned there, and had wiped out, almost to a fur, the King's Militia. The NSA had a few operatives in place around the city, none in positions of any importance, but placed well enough, certainly, to pick up all the gossip … and gossip was available in great abundance. It seemed that every other civilian in the city was claiming personal experience with the "Black Demon" who could move with blinding speed, and shrug off every blow or bullet that came his way, and deal death like a Biblical plague. Matt had made quite an impression on the populace.

But it was more than the raw facts, the casualty numbers and the devastating hit to the morale of the troops; this glaring demonstration that the King's forces were not invincible was stirring the spirit of rebellion in the people of Libya. There was, of course, no way that such an incident could be denied or buried or ignored. Too many had seen, too many knew. For too long had the old jackal ruled without question, taxed their livelihoods into poverty, taken their daughters for his seraglio and their sons for his swelling armies, and sent his death squads after anyone he even _suspected_ of disloyalty. The murmurings were in their infancy, but Rajid could see where this might be the beginning of the end for Hamadi Gafah.

Then there was the Red Horse to consider. They were loosely affiliated with a couple of minor terrorist organizations, but for the most part were only concerned with maintaining the sovereignty of Western Sahara. About that, they were adamant, and Rajid cheered them on whenever they crossed swords with Gafah's regime. He knew the old jackal had returned to his capitol city the previous night, and was stirring things up in a major fashion. As far as Rajid could tell, his latest skirmish with the Red Horse had ended in a draw. He would still have been in Morocco, leading the battles, if Matt hadn't shown up when and where he did.

So many reports. So little time.

##

**In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies  
><strong>**but the silence of our friends.**

_**-Martin Luther King, Jr.**_

##

_** Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania – 7:45pm **_

The family had pitched in to make short work of the weekend chores earlier in the day. Supper was over. The dishes were clean and put away. There wasn't anything she wanted to watch on the four hundred-plus channels they had available (there rarely was) and so Samantha Foxx had leisure to lounge on the sofa in the rumpus room, her netbook propped on her stomach, and chat with her friend Drew.

**Samwise111 : sounds boring**

_**LucrziaDaBom : it wud get u out o th hous**_

**Samwise111 : I'll probably have to go to a Halloween party with my youngers**

_**LucrziaDaBom : beg off**_

_**LucrziaDaBom : u don't need 2 hang w kids wen u cn be w us**_

**Samwise111 : may not be that easy**

_**LucrziaDaBom : cant u just ask?**_

_**LucrziaDaBom : your mom is pretty reasonable**_

**Samwise111 : hah! See? You CAN use whole words. It didn't break your fingers.**

_**LucrziaDaBom : pppbbbbbbbbbb!**_

**Samwise111 : yeah, she's reasonable. But she'll say it's reasonable for me to look after Alice. I've heard that before.**

_**LucrziaDaBom : y not get D to do that? he lord god king of th hous?**_

**Samwise111 : shrug**

**Samwise111 : Dunno. I'm already tired of Halloween and it's still 2.5 weeks off.**

**Samwise111 : Why go to one more dumb dress-up bash?**

_**LucrziaDaBom : cause i'll be lonesome if u don't**_

**Samwise111 : You oculd come over here.**

**Samwise111 : could**

**Samwise111 : stupid fingers**

_**LucrziaDaBom : i knew what u menat**_

**Samwise111 : meant**

_**LucrziaDaBom : see what i mean?**_

**Samwise111 : Happens to the best of us**

_**LucrziaDaBom : so u gonna go to th party?**_

**Samwise111 : Let it go, Drew**

_**LucrziaDaBom : u rlly gotta, Sam!**_

**Samwise111 : fat chance**

_**LucrziaDaBom : pleeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzz ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !**_

**Samwise111 : Geez, Drew, what's with the begging?**

_**LucrziaDaBom : cuz i'll b ther w pete & it won't be NE fun if u rnt**_

**Samwise111 : Why go with Pete? Thought you two broke up?**

_**LucrziaDaBom : we did but i told him i'd go w him b4 that**_

**Samwise111 : And he's holding you to it? What a jerk!**

_**LucrziaDaBom : well i did promise**_

**Samwise111 : And that's very noble of you, I suppose, but why drag me into it?**

_**LucrziaDaBom : i told u i'll be bored stiff**_

_**LucrziaDaBom : u gotta come!**_

_**LucrziaDaBom : pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez!**_

**Samwise111 : Drew, give it a rest.**

_**LucrziaDaBom :_** pleez pleez pleez pleez pleez pleez**_ **_

_**LucrziaDaBom :_**_** pleez pleez pleez pleez pleez pleez**_**_ **_

_**LucrziaDaBom :_**_** pleez pleez pleez pleez pleez pleez**_**_ **_

**Samwise111 : OKAY**

**Samwise111 : Great day, Drew, you're not usually such a royal pain in the ass!**

**Samwise111 : This party is all you've talked about today. What's gotten into you?**

_**LucrziaDaBom : i dunno**_

_**LucrziaDaBom : guess mizry luvs compny **_

_**LucrziaDaBom : but if u go i won't b mizrbl**_

_**LucrziaDaBom : & if u don't i will**_

**Samwise111 : Fine. Whatever. I'll see if Mom will let me go.**

_**LucrziaDaBom : WOOOOOT**_

**Samwise111 : No promises, though. It's up to her.**

_**LucrziaDaBom : u want me 2 call her?**_

**Samwise111 : Not yet. I'll let you know what she says.**

_**LucrziaDaBom : thnx TONS, Sam!**_

**Samwise111 : Yeah, yeah. We'll see.**

_**LucrziaDaBom : i gotta go**_

_**LucrziaDaBom : M's takin me shpng 4 a costume**_

**Samwise111 : K**

**Samwise111 : Have fun.**

**Samwise111 : Later.**

Drew closed her chat window and turned to the lean feline stretched out beside her on her bed, removing his paw from her hip for the _nth_ time. "I'm tryin' to concentrate on typing here! Quit distracting me!"

"You ain't typing now." His paw found its way to her flank and around to the top of her tail where he began to skritch lightly. She arched her back and churred.

Half an hour later, while her lover was catching his breath and letting the various tics and aftershocks work their way out of his system, Drew propped herself up on one elbow and asked, "Hey, Tommy?"

"Yeah?"

"You _sure_ you can get Trevor and Lewis to go along with this?"

"No prob … baby." He gulped a big lungful of air and turned on his side. "Trevor's got it _**bad**_ for that little black vixen, and Lewis'll … go along with anything … Trevor gets up to." Another few deep breaths went by before he offered, "I still don't see what _your_ cut is in this. I thought you two were tight. She ever finds out you set her up with Trev, she's gonna want you deader than dead."

"She'll thank me later. That guy she's so stuck on is off at college now, and you know that sort of relationship never lasts. He'll break her heart and she'll be a basket case. This way, she'll realize they don't have a future, and she'll hook up with Trevor." She shrugged with one shoulder. "Or somefur else. It doesn't really matter, as long as she loses interest in that O'Musca guy."

"Seems kinda harsh to me."

"Gotta be cruel to be kind. Besides, it's high time she chucked that virgin crap."

Tom sat up and looked her straight in the eye, disbelief illuminating his face. "Virgin? Are you sayin' she's a _virgin?_"

"Yep."

"Samantha _Foxx?_ A virgin?"

"Yes, Tommy."

"But she's a Senior!"

"I know. Crazy, right?"

"Wow. Didn't think there were any left."

"Oh, there's a few. But she's too hot a property to stay off the market."

"Does Trev know that?"

"I dunno. Does it matter?"

"It might." He puzzled over that for a moment and nodded. "Yeah, it might at that. It's one thing to fool around with somebody who knows the score, but if she's never been with a guy … wait a sec. You said she was really into this O'Musca fellow, right?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Are you _dead certain_ she's still a virgin? I mean, if he's a normal guy …"

"He's not normal. He's more into this 'purity' stuff than she is."

"… Whoa. You sure she ain't just a beard?"

"Huh?"

"You know. Like, he's gay, but he's in the closet on account of his family or something, and he's got a girlfriend to show everybody he's straight, only he's not, an' 'at? A beard. That's what they call 'em."

"Oh. No, I don't think so. He's snogged her silly more than once, and according to Sam he's really good at it. I don't think that's something you can fake. Not easy, anyhow."

"Snogged?"

"Kissing. Snog means kiss." She waved it off and said, "Sorry. Guess I read too much British fiction."

Tom pulled his legs up under him and stared at Drew. "I don't like it."

"What? What's not to like?"

"If he was the kind to love on Sam and then dump her, would he be into this 'waiting' stuff? That don't make any sense."

"Oh, he'll do it. They all do."

"Craig did, you mean."

She shot him a withering look.

"Drew, just because you had a bum for a boyfriend one time, that doesn't mean we're _all_ bums. Maybe he really is gonna stay with her, long distance and all."

"Never happen."

"You sound awful certain of yourself."

"Sure. Guys are all alike. Two heads, and only enough blood to run one at a time."

He got a skeptical expression on his face, but then just shrugged. "On _your_ head, then."

"Yeah. On _my_ head. You don't have to worry about a thing. Just get out of Trevor's way once she shows up."

"And you think she'll forgive you for this?"

"For one thing she'll never know I had anything to do with it. For another, she just needs to _get over_ herself."

Tom frowned more deeply, considered her profile for a few moments, then rolled off the bed and began collecting his clothes.

"Where you goin'?"

"Home."

"I thought you were staying the night!"

"So did I. But I don't think you're who I thought you were."

"What the hell does that mean?"

He didn't answer until he had his pants buckled. "Look, Drew, you need to think about this, and think about it hard."

"Think about _what?_"

"What I said. About what you're doing to Sam."

"I'm doing her a favor!"

"… Riiiight. I'll see you in class Monday."

"That's it? You just gonna bounce? Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am?"

The look he gave her, one of pity mixed with disgust, irritated her mightily. But he only gave his head a shake and said, "If you don't already understand, I don't think I can explain it to you." He shouldered into his shirt and opened the door. "Goodbye, Drew."

"I don't _believe_ you!"

He sighed, held up an arm and then let it drop. "It's a free country. You can 'not-believe' whatever you want." And he left.

##


	3. Chapter 1 Vignettes  Redux Part C

_**Chapter 1 – Vignettes – Redux – Part C**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

**Unthinking respect for authority is the greatest enemy of truth.**

_**-Albert Einstein**_

##

_** Monday 09 October 2017 – Libya – 4:00pm **_

The servant, a young fellow by the name of Aziz, had been standing outside the door to the King's private interrogation room for several very tense minutes. He held a weighty tray in both paws, laden with a generous supper for his lord and master, and it was getting heavy. But that isn't why his arms trembled. He blinked back another wince at the ragged scream that issued from behind the thick door, knowing that it must be truly horrific to be heard so clearly. On the one paw he had very clear orders to take the meal to the King; on the other, he had no wish to intrude on his Lord's personal space, especially if it might get him killed. But then the burden of decision was removed when the door opened suddenly.

He managed not to drop the tray, which was just as well for his health. The guard (that is, he supposed the huge fur confronting him was a guard) was stripped to the waist and liberally doused with blood; he gave Aziz a quick visual up-and-down and said, "His Majesty doesn't like to be kept waiting." The youth nearly tripped himself in his hurry to get into the room. As quickly as was feasible, he located a likely table, deposited the tray, and backed out of the room, bowing low the whole time. The guard slammed the door shut behind him.

He made it nearly to the end of the corridor before his gorge got the best of him and he deposited his last meal on the wall. The things he saw in that room, the sounds, the smells, the images blasted into his mind in just that very short time, would haunt his nightmares for months. He wiped his mouth, coughed several times, and made his way unsteadily back to the kitchen.

#

"Worthless. Worse than worthless." Gafah contemplated the disfigured form of his cousin, where he hung from one of the room's several racks. He held out a paw and said, "Vice-grip, long-nose." The tool in question was laid in his paw; Gafah considered briefly where it should go, and then reached up to attach it. A pain-wracked groan escaped the unfortunate wight on the torture device; that was the only sound he was capable of any more, since Gafah had recently used a reciprocating saw to remove most of his lower jaw. "To think I left the Kingdom in your paws. I must have been possessed." He looked over the various tools laid out on the nearby bench, chose a short, curved implement and began working on Jibril with it. With what strength the erstwhile Prince had left – and he'd started with considerable, being a robust fellow – he writhed and tried to pull away. The King's muzzle twisted in displeasure; he picked up a large iron bar, square in cross-section and nearly three centimeters thick, and used it to break both his cousin's legs. "Be so kind as to hold still. Show some pride in your family line and take your punishment like a Royal."

The two 'guards' in the room with the King – professional torturers, to be accurate – glanced at each other knowingly. The emotional void behind Gafah's words told them volumes about his mental health. They would be very careful not to upset him.

"Your crimes are unforgiveable." _Slice._ "Kareem's murder by itself would warrant your execution." _Tear._ "But you took Gamma out of hiding and then lay slugabed while some demonic thing spirited him away." _Twist-rip._ "That level of stupidity needs to be culled from our species." He stood back, staring vacantly past his shattered form, then took another tool off the bench and corkscrewed it into Jibril's hip joint.

The nearest guard noted that the victim made no response to what must have been an unbelievable level of pain. Closely, he examined Jibril's chest, saw no movement for half a minute, and nodded. Blood loss had finally caught up with the Prince. He stepped up beside Gafah. "Your Majesty?"

The old jackal turned a baleful eye his way. "What?" The word was flat, the tone menacing.

"A thousand pardons, my Liege, but the Prince has expired."

Gafah swung slightly his way and raised the jagged and bloody implement he held. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

Realizing his mistake, the guard bowed very low. "No, my Liege."

"Would you like to take his place?"

Hurriedly he backed away. "No, my Liege. I meant no offence. How may I aid you?"

With a terse nod, Gafah turned back to the subject of his ire, and resumed the mutilation.

##

**You have been told that, even like a chain, you are as weak as your weakest link.  
><strong>**This is but half the truth. You are also as strong as your strongest link.  
><strong>**To measure you by your smallest deed is to reckon the power of the ocean by the frailty of its foam.  
><strong>**To judge you by your failures is to cast blame upon the seasons for their inconsistency.**

_**- Khalil Gibran**_

##

_** Tuesday 10 October 2017 – Los Angeles – dawn **_

"You know what the problem is, Diedra?"

"What's that?"

"We forget unpleasant experiences."

She took a sip of coffee. "Speak for yourself."

"No, I mean stuff like severe pain. Do you think any gal would have a second child if she could remember what the first birth felt like?"

"Oh. Yeah, I guess. Never having had a child, I can't speak personally." She nodded at the bare patch on Wendy's forearm that the vixen was heroically trying not to scratch. "I take it the fur transition isn't much fun?"

"Itches like the very devil."

"I've got some hydrocortisone cream if you want to try it."

"Thanks, but nothing like that works on me anymore."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Comes with the territory. Karl explained to me once that … dam_**nation**_, this itches! … that the overactive regeneration system isn't just for wounds. Poisons don't work on him, either. And he never gets sick. And he can't get drunk."

"What, not at all?"

"Nope. Alcohol's a poison, you know, technically. Drink too much and it'll kill you. But his system catalyzes the booze so quickly he never even gets a buzz."

"Whoa. That must come in handy."

"He used to win a lot of bar bets. Stopped that shit when some guy drank himself into a coma trying to outdo the big dope." She took the palm of her right paw and rubbed her forearm, hard, several times.

"Does that help?"

"Not so much as you'd notice. Distracting myself with activity seemed to work best last time."

"That's a really awesome trick, though. Changing the base color of your fur pretty much guarantees that you can't be tracked by the authorities."

"Yeah, that's why Karl suggested it." She scratched very lightly and carefully, but then winced and rubbed her arm again. "Damn, that just makes it worse. And now …" She reached down and rubbed her leg. "… now it's coming out here, too." Her paw was covered in black fur when she looked at it.

"How about a swim?"

"Kinda brisk for that right now, isn't it?"

"There's a health club a couple miles … dang it, a few klicks from here. I'm a member, though I don't go that often."

"Huh. Well, you obviously do _something_ to keep in shape."

"Spar with Matt, mostly."

"Oh, yeah? Doing what?"

"I guess you'd call it mixed martial arts. It's not any one discipline, just something he put together on his own. He wants me in top condition, just in case … well, in case something were to happen and he couldn't get me to safety."

"Hah! He sounds just like Karl."

"Who does?" Matt asked from the doorway.

Both femmes started a little. Wendy said, "Damn, you're a quiet son of a gun!"

Diedra nodded. "He does that to me all the time."

"I don't mean to, Hon."

"I know that. You just don't make much noise."

"So, who were you talking about?"

"Oh. You."

Matt frowned with one eye. "How am I like Gul– uh, Karl?"

Wendy answered, "In your concern for your wife's well-being. Karl taught me an awful lot about self-defense combat in the time we were together."

"Ah. Only sensible."

There was a distinct sparkle in the eye Diedra turned on Wendy. "Mr. Practical, isn't he?"

"Very much so." She used her left paw to rub her leg and her right one to rub her left arm. "Is that health club open right now?"

"I think they start up at seven. We can head over that way in a few minutes, be there when they open."

"Sounds good. I'll try anything at this point, and I wasn't really in a position to go swimming the first time around."

Matt had poured himself a cup of the coffee. "You're losing fur, right?"

"And how!"

"Wouldn't that clog up their filters? Don't they have a policy about staying out of the pool if you're actively shedding?"

"Oh. Yeah." Diedra nodded. "I forgot."

"Also, if I remember correctly, you …" he pointed at Wendy, "… are trying to keep as low a profile as possible until you get back to normal. Or what passes for normal with you these days."

"Um … yeah. Okay, good catch. Sorry. This damned itching makes it hard to think."

"You can use the fountain out back if you want. It's not big enough to do laps by any means, but if all you're looking for is a large quantity of hot water, I've got you covered, so to speak."

"Fountain?"

"Oh!" said Diedra, "that's a good idea. Can you adjust the temperature down so that it won't burn her?"

"Yeah, sure. I never do when I use it to launch, but it's fully programmable. Heck, it's got all kinds of features I never use."

And so, ten minutes later, Matt watched with amusement as the two femmes stepped into the confines of the fountain enclosure, Diedra having shooed him away. "Wendy will need to be in just her fur for this, and you don't need to be peeking."

"As you wish, dear. But can't I just peek at _you?_"

"You can see _**lots**_ more of me later."

"That a promise?"

"Don't forget about me."

"Like that would happen."

##

**We spend too much time looking for the right person to love  
><strong>**or finding fault with those we already love,  
><strong>**when instead we should be perfecting the love we give.**

##

_** Chicago – noon **_

"I appreciate all the help, Leonard, but you really didn't need to go to so much trouble."

"Nah. Dis wudd'n any trouble." He patted her paw. "An' 'sides, I neveh did get much of a chance before ta apologize fer da way I treated ya dat foist time we met."

Michelle Moreno stole a quick glance at their surroundings. Capra had arranged to meet her at a nearby park where they spoke briefly before he led her to this upscale restaurant. They had a magnificent view of the Lake on one side, and the dining room was a study in understated elegance. Rich wood, cut crystal, and gold leaf figured in the decorating scheme, but it blended flawlessly into a series of horseshoe-shaped lounges in dark, polished leather that separated the eating areas from the bar. The meal had started with an outstanding selection of sushi and sashimi; the eel sauce was one of the best she'd ever tasted. They had just finished the first half of the main course, rare tenderloin of lamb, carefully seasoned and sliced paper-thin, layered over a lump of truly outstanding fois gras, and paired with a delightfully light wine. The second half would be on its way to their table shortly: an arrangement of steamed and peeled lobster claws drizzled with some sort of chocolate reduction that involved crisped jalapenos, the whole encased in an elaborate crystal-sugar lattice. Everything on the menu thus far was near the top of her list of favorite foods. Either he had done a masterful job of attending to her desires, or she was on the winning end of an impossible series of coincidences. Occam's Razor suggested the former.

"Apology accepted." She picked up the data cube he'd given her earlier, idly toying with it. "And my thanks, again, for this."

"It's da least we could do. When Raj found out how much woik youse guys had in dis case, an' eveht'ing ya uncovehed at 'is place in Alboita … well, we all felt bad about keepin' yaz outta da mansion."

"All of you? Or mostly just you?"

He had the good grace to look a little guilty. "Well … maybe _**all**_ of us wudd'n as int'risted as I was. I t'ought dis might go some ta make up fer it."

"That's some consolation, I suppose," she offered, grinning. "Or vindication, at least."

"Yeh. An' we all undahstood dat ya needed ta know how it went down wit' dat looney, it bein' sorta poysonal."

"Personal. Right. Hard to get much more _personal_ than possession." She sighed and took a sip of wine. "Eh. I'm glad he's dead. I'm sorry I didn't get to kill him, but I'm glad I don't have to now." A short chuckle escaped. "At least that doctor … what was it? Dr. Brown?"

"Close. Dr. Tann."

"Tann, right! I knew it sounded like a color. At least he was forthcoming with what info he had. I'd have given a lot to see that fight, though."

"Dat's my blood-toisty little goil."

"Little! Hah! I'm nearly as tall as you."

He craned his head around side to side, checking her out, and said, "Put t'geddeh some differ'nt, dough."

She swatted him with her napkin. A couple two tables away hid their giggles behind their menus and looked very innocent when Michelle gave them the eye.

Capra and Michelle were careful not to ask each other about their current cases, or for that matter to discuss much of anything at all work-related. Their respective superiors weren't too happy about this inter-departmental relationship, but they were willing to overlook it if it didn't interfere with the job. The pair understood this thoroughly, and both were glad of it. What that meant for conversation was that they talked mostly about each other, how they felt, their likes and dislikes, goals and history, trip-ups and triumphs. They'd gotten to know each other very well in the last few weeks, even considering how difficult it was for them to meet in person.

A waiter approached them, pushing a narrow cart with their food. Michelle made a small delighted sound and Capra licked his chops. "Dat's what I'm talkin' about!"

After unloading the plates and making sure each item was correctly placed, the waiter asked, "Is everything to your satisfaction?"

"Everything is glorious," responded Michelle.

Capra nodded. "Dead on da beam, man."

"Excellent. Will you be choosing a dessert later?"

"No!" said Michelle, "Heavens! I'm nearly stuffed now, and here you set a half-dozen lobster claws in front of me. I won't have room for dessert."

"Nah," added Capra, "me neidah."

"Then enjoy your meal." And he pushed the cart back to the kitchen.

#

_** 7:50pm **_

Chicago is a city of nearly unlimited weather possibilities. At this time of year they could be in the throes of an early blizzard, or, as was the case today, enjoying a prolonged bit of Indian summer. With the ambient hovering around fifteen and no overcast to speak of, the couple meandering along the bridge had no trouble picking out the stars as they appeared, even with the gibbous moon casting sharp shadows on the concrete.

Michelle had wangled two days off for this trip, and Capra had "combined" it with two other tasks he had on his plate that needed doing in the general vicinity of the city. But the first one he had completed early that morning, and the other wouldn't really be an issue until Thursday. They had all night and all the next day, and were reveling in this unstructured time with each other.

There was a small observation platform at the center of the bridge, and by tacit assent they climbed it together, standing close and holding paws when they reached the top. She leaned over against him and he moved his arm to encircle her waist.

Her head snuggled against his shoulder, she asked, "You really think this'll work?"

"What? Us? As a couple?"

"Yeah."

Several moments passed before he answered. "I'd like ta t'ink so. I _do_ t'ink so. I fer _sure_ t'ink it's worth da effort we're puttin' into it." He turned to her and hugged her close. "Nevah t'ought I'd _evah_ meet anyone like you."

"Same goes for me. You're the first guy I've ever … well, been at all interested in, that wasn't either intimidated or only after one thing."

"Idiots."

"No argument there."

Some quarter of an hour later they made their way down and ambled along the street, talking quietly about inconsequential – and therefore terribly important – things.

"So, 'chelle, has dat awesome lunch wore off yet? 'scuse me, _'worn'_ off?"

She giggled at his self-editing. "Thanks, Leonard. Yeah, I guess so. I could do with something light. What'd you have in mind?"

"Dere's a great Greek place about two blocks down dat has dese little mini-gyros. Dey got fresh-roasted lamb an' dey make dere own feta cheese and flatbread. An' dey got a walk-up winda an' a few tables on a patio off ta da side, an' some damn fine European beers on tap."

"Sounds perfect."

They didn't alter their gate, being more interested in each other's company at the moment than in anything going on around them. But that changed as they passed by an alley in the middle of the block.

The buildings were fairly tall here as a rule, at least eight stories and more often a dozen, so the clear moonlight failed entirely to offer any illumination past three or four meters from the sidewalk. Capra was on the street side, so Michelle's sharp ears had an unobstructed path to a rough voice saying, "Gimme yore shit!" She glanced into the gloom to her right, her mouth drew into a tight line, and she said, "Hon, would you excuse me for a minute?" Then she slipped, ghostlike, into the alley.

Capra squinted, peering after her, and made an adjustment to a small device strapped to his left forearm as he followed. His eyes adjusted quickly, so he was able to make out a small figure cowering in a corner beside a trash bin, and the FIA agent confronting two thugs, either of which would easily tip the scales at half again her own mass. One of them lunged at her, and an instant later took a very abbreviated trip, over her shoulder and into the nearby brick wall, face first. He hit the ground like a wet leather sack. The other mugger cursed in surprise and turned to run away. He saw Capra and raised a long knife high as he approached. But the canine calmly raised his left arm in turn. There was a small _pff_ sound, his attacker jerked to a stop and fell to the ground, twitching spasmodically.

Michelle helped the muggers' victim to her feet. "Are you all right ma'am? Did they hurt you?" Then she got a better look at her and revised her estimate of the girl's age. "Sorry. Miss. You okay?"

The girl nodded, her eyes threatening to take over the rest of her face; she mumbled, "Thanks," and sprinted off in the opposite direction. Michelle shook her head in pity and came back to where Capra stood. He asked, "Was she hurt?"

"Nah. Just scared. Poor thing. Looked pretty ragged. Homeless, I'd say."

"Where'd she go?"

"Off."

"Ah, damn. We scared 'er."

Michelle glanced down at the mugger and asked, "What'd I miss?"

He pulled his coat sleeve up to reveal a compact mechanism strapped to his arm. "Micro-pulse neural damper." A grin split his head. "Don' leave home widdout it."

She rewarded him with a snicker. "That won't work up much of an appetite."

"Guess I won' eat much, den." He crooked his elbow. "Shall we?"

"Oh, let's." She slipped her arm in his and they made their way, slowly, toward supper.

##


	4. Chapter 1 Vignettes  Redux Part D

_**Chapter 1 – Vignettes – Redux – Part D**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

**A man's conscience, like a warning line on the highway,  
><strong>**tells him what he shouldn't do –  
><strong>**but it does not keep him from doing it.**

_**-Frank A. Clark**_

##

_** Monday 23 October 2017 – Pittsburgh – 10:00pm **_

Four rings would normally be followed by some sort of voice mail message kicking in, but that didn't happen. Tom heard four more before the other end was picked up. "Hello?"

"Um … hi. Um … I'm looking … is Martin O'Musca there?"

"Yeah, hold on. I'll go see if he's awake."

Nearly a minute dragged by. Tom came close to hanging up three times, going so far as to hover his thumb over the END button once, but he stiffened up his resolve and waited. Finally a somewhat slurred voice said, "Yeah? This's Martin. Who's 'is?"

"Um … hey." Tom's mind went blank for a second.

"… Yes?"

"Um …"

"An' did ye pull me out o' bed jist t' stutter into th' phone?"

"Sorry! Sorry. I'm a – a, um, a friend … that is, I know Sam. Samantha. Foxx."

Martin sat up, his fatigue extinguished. "She be a'right?"

"Huh? Oh! Oh, yeah. Yeah, she's fine. Far as I know. But, see, that's what I wanted to talk to you about, 'cause I'm worried."

"Wait. Who ye be? What's yer name?"

"Oh. Sorry. Tom. Tom Blaze. I go to school with Sam."

"… All right. But ye say she's well?"

"Yeah, for now."'

"What does that mean?"

"See, there's this party a lot of us are goin' to on Friday, and Sam wasn't gonna go but this girl she knows talked her into goin', but she wasn't on the up-and-up 'cause there's this guy that has a crush on her real bad, and he's not what ya might call real careful about a girl's feelings, and 'no' might not mean 'no' if he's had a couple drinks, and I'm afraid he might try something." He gasped and blew a long breath. _I did it! Go me!_ "And I thought you ought to know, since you're her boyfriend an' 'at."

_Friday. My last class on Friday lets out at two. I can be in Pittsburgh by five, if the traffic isn't too bad._ "So … Tom, is it?"

"Yeah."

"This party on Friday. When is it?"

"Starts around six or so. Probably gets good and cranked up by eight."

"An' where's it goin' t' be?"

"At Alex's place ."

"An' that would be …?"

"Oh, sorry. His parents have a great big house up north of Hartwood Acres, off Cedar Run Road. They're in Canada for a month and Alex has the run of the place."

"An' they _know_ about this party?"

"No, I don't think so. Alex said they wouldn't care if they _did_ know. They're not home much."

_Och! The state of families in this country is a right blight._ "You got the address?"

"Yeah." He read it off for Martin. "So are you gonna be there?"

"Count on it. And ye have me thanks fer lettin' me in on the score."

"Do me a favor?"

"What's that?"

"Don't let on who told you?"

"Ye may depend upon it."

##

**When we lose one we love,  
><strong>**our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours  
><strong>**when we loved not enough.**

_**- Maurice Maeterlinck **_

##

_** Wednesday 25 October 2017 – Near Boston – 1:43pm **_

Apart from the outer ring of rooms on the first floor, the entire building that housed The Tank was a 'clean room' area. What that meant for Corporal Alvin Hays, the guard outside Karl's unit, was a white haz-mat suit over his fatigues and a plastic bag on his rifle. The bag was clear, and very light, but the corporal resented it anyway.

He didn't _exactly_ resent this stint of guard duty. It was a regular rotation, and he was well aware of where this office fit into the overall scheme of national security. But, as was the case with most posts of this type, it was frightfully dull. So the generally high level of activity today had been something of a relief. He could tell something significant was going down. One of the geek-freaks let slip that Special Agent Capra was on his way here even now, and a heavy-hitter like that didn't show up to play tiddlywinks, of that he was sure.

Even as those thoughts were running through the soldier's head, Capra was throwing on his clean-suit. "Ya sure 'bout dat, Stone? He's been outta REM da whole time?"

"Yes! We didn't know what else to do." Technician (Level IV) Adrian Stone's delight at Capra's appearance was a nearly palpable thing, his long, feline whiskers actually vibrating in time with his pulse. "Rajid said he had to be here, or you did, when he comes to, and his system's fighting the sedative like nothing I've ever seen before."

"Yeh, dat's ta be expected."

"I mean, we just have to keep pumping it in! I know you said his healing ability was unusual, but this is above and beyond! It's insane! What's he got in there that can do that? A microscopic chem lab?"

"Ya'd be s'prised, Bub." Capra got the helmet in place and sealed, and headed inside at a trot.

Stone's partner in this effort, a young coyote femme by the name of Sarah Threetrees, was visibly sweating; Capra could see the matted fur through her faceplate. She heaved a long sigh of relief when she spotted him. "Adrian! Thank God he's here! Can I stop now?"

"Yes. Was he still neutralizing it?"

"Like mad! I upped the dose three times just since you walked out, and added two hundred milligrams of triteradiazopine with the latest pump." She was tapping in the final termination codes as she spoke, then she stood, grabbed a remote control, and walked over to the cat. They both watched Capra as he took a position at one end of the Tank, near Karl's head. He asked, not looking their way, "Is it drained?"

"Of course. Has been ever since …"

"Fine. Just checkin'." He glanced up at them and nodded. "I'm ready. Go ahead an' open 'im up."

There was a series of subdued clicks, then a much louder _**clunk**_ as the Tank split apart about two-thirds of the way up its side. The upper section lifted ten centimeters and then swung ponderously back, exposing the form of the fur inside. Karl's arms and legs were twitching rhythmically as he struggled upward to consciousness, fists clenching and releasing, muzzle gnashing. Capra noted again the gaunt leanness of the giant fur's limbs, still stick-thin even after weeks in the nutrient solution. He reached in and pulled off the Velcro straps that held the oxygen mask in place, moving it up and off Karl's head.

The wolverine's eyes opened. His gaze wandered around wildly, one eye finally settling on Capra.

"Beorn? Can ya hear me, Bub?"

He tried to speak, coughing instead. Rolling to the side a bit, he coughed again and spat.

"Take ya time, Beorn. I got nuttin' but time."

One oversize paw came up and latched onto the side of the Tank, and Karl heaved himself into a sitting position, threw an arm over the edge to steady himself, and drew a ragged breath. "Capra?" It came out as a squeaky whistle.

"Right here, man."

He tried to speak again but instead produced more coughs; he took a few steadying breaths. "Did you … did you …" That trailed off into panting.

"… did I what?"

"… find her?"

Capra frowned. "Find who?" _Could he be talking about his wife? Why would he think she was in trouble?_

Karl's eyes squeezed shut, and tears leaked out. "No. You didn't. I remember now."

"Ya lost me, Bub."

He tried to get to his knees, but slipped and fell back into the Tank. Mouth working silently, he lay there, trembling. Capra thought he looked like he was trying to marshal what little strength he had left, and after half a minute he did manage to pull himself back up, though he was blowing hard with the effort.

"Can I help? Ya need me to help ya outta there?"

The panting trailed off. He took a deep breath and rasped out, "She's gone!"

"… Gone?"

His eyes turned suddenly dangerous. "I'll kill him! Murderer! I'll kill him!"

Capra stepped back. _That dust-up at the warehouse must be the last thing he has clear in his mind._ "Whoa, now, guy, I t'ink you betteh cash a reality check. All ya cylindahs ain't firin'."

Karl didn't seem to hear him. "… did … everything … I could. But we were … set up."

"Yeah, we were. Ya got captured. Gafah had ya in 'is dungeon fer a stretch. But we gotcha back out."

That brought a look of confusion to Karl's face, and he shook his head. "You're mixed up, Capra." He reached out and grabbed a pawful of the canine's suit, pulling him closer. "I saw. I … remember."

"Whaddaya remembeh?"

More coughing. "… they … got … her …"

"Waitaminnit, Beorn, she's fine. Gafah didn' touch 'er. Wendy's safe an' soun'."

"… Who?"

Capra got an unpleasant chill. "Wendy."

"No! Capra!" He hung on to the front of Capra's suit as if his soul were at stake. "She's gone! They betrayed us, and killed her!" His head sank to the rim of the Tank, sobs shaking his long frame. "Phoebe's dead, and I couldn't stop it."

"… Phoebe?"

"Gone. … Dead. … Murdered. … Sorry." He gasped, shuddered, turned bleak eyes on his old teammate. "So sorry! You … didn't know." His voice got softer with each syllable. "Betrayed. Tried … to save her." The words stumbled and tottered off into weeping.

Capra, completely nonplussed, could only look at the broken fur before him. Gently, he disengaged Karl's paw from his suit.

"… Phoebe … so sorry … Phoebe …"

The ISB agent slid back a meter or so and glanced over at the techs; they were monitoring the wolverine's vital signs but were oblivious to the drama. He turned his attention back to Karl, thinking,_ Oh, Wendy is __**not**__ gonna take __**this**__ well. Not well at all._

_##_


	5. Chapter 2 Nothing Like A Homecoming A

_**Chapter Two – Nothing Like a Homecoming – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**Revenge has no more quenching effect on emotions  
><strong>**than salt water has on thirst.**

_**-Walter Weckler**_

##

_** Friday 13 October 2017 – Near Boston – 3:20pm **_

Capra stopped at the door of his office, his hackles jumping erect.

Matt Sinclair said, "Good afternoon, Capra."

He weighed his options. The wolverine sitting in his chair, one leg crossed over a knee, didn't look threatening – that is, he didn't _act_ as if he _wanted_ to appear threatening – and in truth wore a slight smile. Capra released the doorknob and stood in the opening, crossing his arms. "Sinclair."

"Hope you don't mind, but if you have some time I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"An' what if I don't _got_ da time?"

"Then I'll come back later."

"Huh." That wasn't what he thought he'd hear. "Okay. Time I got. But answers? Dat depends on da questions."

"They concern our large mutual acquaintance. The one currently marinating in that auto-doc-wannabe a few klicks north of here."

"Ah-hum. Well. Heh. Ya prob'ly know as much about 'im as I do."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Up until very recently I wouldn't have crossed the street to spit in his ear if his brains were on fire. See, I know about a fellow who used to work for the ISB who had a license to kill and a **real** short temper. I know about someone who was at least complicit in the abduction of my wife. I know about a fur who spent a great deal of time and effort eradicating an international terrorist organization out of revenge. What I _don't_ know about is what he's been up to these last few years, and why he seems to have changed."

"Oh."

"Yeah." The look on Capra's face told Matt much. "I think I may have hit paydirt."

"Could be." Capra moved over and took a seat in one of the padded chairs beside his desk. "Whaddaya wanna know?"

Matt's answering grin _just_ managed not to be predatory. "Cool. I've been talking to his wife …"

"Wendy? How'd ya … oh, dat's right. She wangled ya inta da deal in da foist place." He cocked an eyebrow. "She wit' youse guys now?"

"For the time being. I'm still not totally convinced it would be safe for her to return to Vermont."

"… Oh." That was a side of Sinclair that Capra hadn't suspected. But then, he really didn't know the fur that well. "Fair enough. So ya been talkin' wit' Wendy. So what?"

"She says Gulo became a Christian."

"She did, huh?"

"She did. I'd like to get your point of view."

"Why?"

"Well … love does strange things to people."

Instantly several mental snapshots from the last few days ran through Capra's head, bringing a purely involuntary smirk to his hirsute features. Matt did not fail to notice this, remarking, "I take it you agree."

"Yeh."

"So is he? A Christian?"

Capra's muzzle pursed as he considered his reply to that statement. "Well … yeah. If by dat ya mean he joined a choich an' plays it on da straight an' narrah, den, yeah, he's a Christian."

"You don't sound convinced."

A deep breath was followed by a long sigh. "I dunno. I don' got much ta do wit' what most furs t'ink of as 'organized religion', so could be I'm not da best one ta ask."

"But you are in a position to make a before-and-after comparison."

"Eh. Mebbe. Most o' what I got was secont-paw info, but it checks out, far as I can check it. He moved ta Vermont, out in da slam middle o' da sticks, an' bought dis little run-down shack of a buildin', and toined it inta a repair shop. Den' he hires dis local kid, an' da kid invites him ta choich, an' after a while he goes. An' accordin' ta what I was able ta dig up, he had him a old-fashioned come-ta-Jesus convoision 'sperience."

"You talked with his acquaintances in the area?"

"Some. Dey was a close-mouthed bunch, but to a fur dey stood behind 'im. Said he was da Salt o' da Oith, one o' da best guys any of 'em evah met. But dey wudden about ta gimme any specifics, know whut I'm sayin'?"

Matt nodded. "That jibes with what Wendy said. I just find it curious."

"Why's dat?"

"Well, Gulo's not young, at least chronologically. Of course most people are aware that our species is quite long-lived, but most furs have pretty much settled on a life-philosophy by the time they hit their sixties. It's just … strange, I suppose. Strange that he'd make such a radical course correction." He chuckled and tapped his knee a few times. "I'll have to chat with him when he comes out of the Tank."

"Dat'll be a while. He's real bad hurt, an' healin' slow."

"Slow for him, you mean."

"Yeh."

Matt ran a finger along the underside of his muzzle a few times. "So if all your investigating turned up positive remarks, why do you seem hesitant?"

"Whaddaya mean?"

"You said, 'I dunno', or words to that effect. What is there about him that keeps you from being completely convinced of his sincerity?"

"Oh. Right. Well … see, we set up a meetin' wit' 'im – or really, he set up da meetin' wit' us – at dis warehouse in da Research Triangle. Real cagey, real subtle … ya know, sneaky ta da max."

"Yes?"

"Yeah. Da way he was actin' while we was … ah, while _Dedrick_ was talkin' wit' 'im … it was like he was playin' us."

"So you're saying that having a high degree of regard for his own safety means he's not really a Christian?"

Capra thought that over and blew a disgusted breath. "No. Dat ain't right." He shrugged, raised a paw and let it drop. "I dunno. It's just a feelin', ya know? I ain't got nuttin' concrete, just … well, I woiked wit' 'im f' yeahs. He'd have ta change a _**lot**_ ta …" He looked up in surprise at Matt, who had barked a laugh.

"I said the exact same thing to Wendy when she first approached me."

"Huh."

"Okay." He put his feet on the floor, sat forward and gave Capra a penetrating stare. "So you have the weight of evidence indicating a significant change in his character, but find it hard to believe."

"… Well … when ya put it _dat_ way … yeah."

"Thank you. Thank you for being honest with me."

"Yer … welcome?"

That pulled a chuckle out of Matt. "Don't … mention it?" His inflection mimicked Capra's perfectly.

The shaggy agent sent him a disgusted glare. "C'n I have my desk back? Some of us got reports ta write."

"Absolutely." He stood and walked around to the front of the desk. "I appreciate your input, Capra."

"Yeah, yeah. Next time send me a meetin' notice. Dat's what da computah's for, ya know."

"Not _**nearly**_ as much fun, though." And he vanished.

##

_** Near New Haven, Vermont – 6:50pm **_

Sandee Grey glanced around the kitchen in satisfaction. Sally had done a competent job: all the dishes were cleaned and put away, the counters scrubbed, the floor swept, and the trash can emptied. She wiped her paws on her apron, swished it off, and hung it at its place on the rack by the back door before heading toward the front of the house and the staircase leading up to the bedrooms. She was running her claws through her hair, trying to decide whether she wanted a shampoo, when the doorbell rang. She'd just passed Alan's study and sang out, "I got it, Honey."

She didn't recognize the fur who stood on their welcome mat so she left the chain in place and the storm door closed while she asked, "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Is Pastor Grey home? I'd like to talk with him."

"May I say who is calling?"

"Matt Sinclair."

The name tickled the back of her mind. She thought she'd heard it before, but the context wouldn't gel. She nodded, said, "Be right back," and went to get Alan.

He looked up. "Is it for me?"

"Yep. Some fur named Matt Sinclair. Says he wants to talk with you."

"Sinclair …" Alan frowned. "Where have I heard that name?"

Sandee nodded, adding, "That's just what I said!"

His eyes got wide. He said, "Naw! Couldn't be the same one." He rose and scooted out the door, padded up the hall and opened the front door. "It is him!" He threw open the storm door and said, "Come in! Please, make yourself at home."

"Are you Pastor Grey?"

"I am. And you are Matthew Gable Sinclair, the fur who painted _Luther's Last Thesis_ and the most amazing artist I ever heard of."

Matt had to grin at that. "Flattery will get you anywhere."

"I seriously doubt I could flatter you. My command of English isn't that good."

"That'll do, then."

"What did you need to see me about?"

"Well …" He cocked an eye at Sandee. "It would be good if we could speak somewhere privately."

Sandee put up a paw. "None of my lookout. You two have fun." And she went upstairs.

Alan led Matt to the study and they made themselves comfortable. "I must admit," the squirrel said, "to being at a complete loss for a reason for your visit."

"Then I shall enlighten you. You know a fellow by the name of Karl Luscus."

There was a significant _smack_ when Alan's paws hit the desk. He stared hard at Matt for several seconds and then asked, "You know Karl?"

"Yeah, sort of. Mainly I know his wife."

". . . . . . . . . . . . Wife?"

"Pretty vixen. Name's Wendy."

"… _Wendy?_ Wendy Wylde?"

"I think that was her name, yes. If the details don't escape me, she was married to an Arthur Wylde some time ago and never bothered to switch back to her maiden name. I think my wife may be more privy to the whole skinny than I am. Those two are thick as thieves these days."

Alan seemed to be only paying about half-attention. "Married. Have mercy."

"I take it you didn't know he'd gotten hitched?"

"No." He leaned back and scratched behind an ear, softly adding, "So he went ahead and did it after all."

"Sorry?"

"Oh. My apologies. It's just … we had a number of conversations about that relationship, and …"

"Really?"

"… Yes. Is that surprising?"

"Actually … it ties in with what I wanted to ask you."

"And that would be?"

"Well … Wendy claims he's a Christian. But she's very much **not**. In fact, her attitude toward issues of faith is rather antagonistic, and so her opinion on the reality of his conversion might not be entirely informed."

Seconds ticked by as Alan digested that, his face wavering between sadness and irritation. Finally he turned his attention back to his visitor. "Tell me something."

"If I can."

"Is Karl well? Is he safe?"

"He's safe, yes. You needn't worry about that."

Alan thought that over for a minute, at length saying, "Just to satisfy my curiosity, and to lay the groundwork for an accurate answer, would you mind telling me why his spiritual condition is important to you?"

"Fair enough. But first I have to know just how well you know him."

"Meaning what?"

"What did he tell you about his background, for instance?"

"That's not a subject he'd lightly expose. As his pastor I'll have to say that it's frankly none of your business."

"I see." A smile scurried across his face. "Because I knew him when his name wasn't Luscus, and I just wondered how forthcoming he'd been with you."

Alan leaned back in his chair, picked up a pencil off the desk, and started tapping it lightly on a book. "I will tell you this. Karl studied the Scriptures exhaustively, and read widely in various commentaries and associated works before making the decision to receive Christ as his Savior. I spent _hundreds_ of hours answering his questions or helping him to find the answers he needed. I know for a fact that his … well, his _worldview_ today is very, very different from what it was six years ago. If his conversion is a sham … no, I won't even go that far. He's the real thing. He gave his life over to the service of God, and despite his years of living as a reprobate, and despite the chains that habit can forge, he is one of the more genuine Christians of my experience." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Huh. Okay, then. That's rather more of an answer than I was expecting."

"Now." Alan clasped his paws together and stared Matt down. "I will ask again. Why is this important to you?"

"Ah. Yes, well, you answered my question handsomely so I suppose I owe you." He pulled one ankle up onto his knee. "I have … um, a history with Gulo." Matt was watching as he said Karl's original name, and observed how the muscles tightened in Alan's face. "It was not a pleasant relationship. He was, as you doubtless know, a bloodthirsty sort, quick to take offense and slow to release a grudge. I know also that he is a lot older than he looks." There was that stiffening again, telling Matt he'd hit a nerve. "And given his real age, I was, to say the very least, skeptical about his conversion."

"Mr. Sinclair …"

Matt could tell there was a question just bursting to be free. "Go ahead."

"Were you connected with the ISB?"

"Not in an official capacity. But I was all too familiar with their activities, methods, and goals. And I knew about Omicron."

Alan sat back, his mouth slightly open. "Very well. You know more than most furs."

"A true and accurate statement."

"He crossed you some time, didn't he?"

"Yep."

"So how do you come to know Wendy?"

"Eh … she found me."

Alan's confusion was obvious, so Matt elaborated. "Were you aware that Karl had run afoul of some old enemies of his?"

He recalled what he and Quinn and Tom had learned about the attack at the Inn, and then thought back on a conversation he'd had with Brightlimb Stephens a few weeks earlier concerning a vision Fay had experienced, and gave one short, grim nod. "We'd heard something like that. We knew he and Wendy got away from that first incident back in February, but some news I got recently made me afraid he'd been captured or killed."

"Captured, yes. And almost killed. But we got him out."

" 'We'? You had a paw in it?"

"You could say that, in a roundabout way. I'm rather more than financially secure, and you'd be amazed at the sorts of things you can accomplish with the application of a large enough amount of money."

"I see. Well, speaking for his friends here, I thank you."

"No problem."

"So how long _**have**_ you known Karl?"

"Long enough to have formed an image of him that recent events have shattered beyond recognition. And I'll have to say, I'm not sorry."

"Glad to hear it."

"So," and here Matt leaned forward, elbows on knees, "tell me about this church of yours that pulled off a miracle worthy of alerting the Vatican."

##


	6. Chapter 2 Nothing Like A Homecoming B

_**Chapter Two – Nothing Like a Homecoming – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

**We are torn between a craving to know,  
><strong>**and the despair of having known.**

_**-F. Sagan**_

##

_** Friday 27 October 2017 – Los Angeles – mid-Morning **_

Wendy sat rigid, staring a hole in the carpet between her feet. Diedra was afraid to touch her, but felt that she probably needed the contact, so she sat as close as she could. The vixen, her voice tight as a guy wire, asked, "So it's constant? All the time?"

Matt cleared his throat nervously and offered, "The doctor thinks it's just temporary, that he simply isn't finished healing … but, yes, he's in a tremendous amount of pain, really disoriented at the moment, and not … ahm, you could say he doesn't have it together." Rajid had carefully refrained from revealing that Karl hadn't remembered his wife, only explaining the pain and what went with it. The news he passed on to Matt was bad enough; he hoped like heck that Karl's memory would improve.

"And they wouldn't … wouldn't tell you anything else?"

"Eh, no. I was left with the distinct impression that there wasn't anything else to tell. That's why they're trying to keep him sedated, to see if that will speed things along."

"I asked him abo-bout that one time." The words tripped over a catch in her voice, and Diedra put a paw on her shoulder in sympathy.

"About what?" Matt wanted to know.

Wendy dragged knuckles across her face and said, "What would happen if he … he couldn't get enough … enough f-food."

"Oh."

"You know what my appetite is like. His is twice that, at least." She sucked in a long breath and leaned on Diedra, who pulled her into a hug. "The starvation probably hurt him more than the torture. Maybe a lot more."

Matt stood. "I'll go check on him every day I can."

"Thank you."

"But it won't be _every_ day. I've got several commissions I've been putting off for a while now, and some deadlines are sneaking up on me. You've got the number for Rajid's direct line, and he's staying up to speed on Karl's progress." His eyes took on a steely light that neither femme noticed. "And there's one _more_ little project I've been working on that will need my attention before I can get started painting. Anyway, I have to go now. I'll see you both this evening." And a waft of cold air flowed away from the spot where he'd been.

Wendy sniffled a couple of times.

"Hey." Diedra stroked the vixen's head, noting absently the incredible softness of the short fur that was still growing in. "Hey, come on. You know he'll get better, right?"

No answer apart from more sniffles.

"This is Karl we're talking about here! The poster boy for 'You Can't Keep a Good Fur Down'.

Wendy nodded and wiped at her nose. "Diedra … I'm really worried about him. I mean, like, _scared_ worried. He's never out – out of control – you know? He's always so strong and sure of himself and if he's … if he's hurt so bad he can't even focus …"

"Well, however long it takes," the mongoose continued in her practical way, "you need to keep your strength up. Let's go get you some brunch."

"And a tissue," Wendy added, sniffling again.

#

_** Friday 27 October 2017 – Near Boston – mid-Morning **_

Dr. Robert Topol loved a challenge. That attitude had driven him to the top of his class since the sixth grade, and then to the top of his profession after medical school. The lean hare was one of the leading experts in the field of pain management, and his signature graced fourteen patents. So when the ISB (!) had contacted him with a special request, he'd jumped at the chance for more experience.

Now he was wishing he'd never answered his PA.

The patient, a very tall, very thin wolverine, was in agony. Since the subject was lying on the kirlian table that Dr. Topol himself had developed, he knew it wasn't psychosomatic. He could see the pain signals as they raced frantically along the neural pathways. He could watch as each of the various compounds he tried was injected and subsequently failed. It was as if the drugs simply faded away once they hit the patient's bloodstream. It was inexplicable! It was unbelievable!

It was driving him nuts.

Karl was in even worse shape. His control over his nervous system had been seriously compromised, and he'd yet to relocate the key. In the past, when he first learned the techniques, the process was slow and accomplished while in a relaxed, meditative state. He'd learned, and then applied. But now his body screamed at him, a hundred-hundred pains from tiny and sharp to deep and aching, from a burning that threatened to crisp his skin to trip-hammer blows he felt sure would knock the eyes from his head. He couldn't concentrate. He couldn't remember.

… He couldn't remember.

Damn it, he could _not __**remember!**_

No reference points. No continuity. No familiarity.

Everything was a blur. They told him what day it was, what year. But so much was missing. The last few months were simply gone, nothing but the occasional scrap that would sneak up and startle him before ducking back behind the blistered rocks of his mindscape, out of reach, mocking him.

The pain made it hard to think about anything else.

So _hard_ to _think!_

Sound and light and heat and pressure and a foul odor in his nose. Where did _that_ come from?

Faces loomed and receded.

_My name is Karl._

… _Karl? …_

… _yes, Karl …_

_Karl … **Gulo!**_

_Beorn Karl Gulo._

Why didn't that sound right?

_Luscus._

That was the name he took, the name to hide behind.

_Luscus!_

He remembered, as though he'd read it in a book long ago, that he had erased all traces of his life as Beorn Gulo from the public records. He even recalled how he had done it. But it felt like something someone else had done, something someone else had told him about.

The pain attacked, then receded, targeted one area, then jumped elsewhere.

_Can't concentrate. Have to concentrate. Find the key._

There was some guy there now, someone he didn't know.

Should he know him? He looked like a doctor.

_I don't like doctors._

But he was on some table thing and the doctor was across the room and it was so hard to move and he hurt so much …

_Don't like doctors. But I don't like the pain either._

_Remember!_

Just snatches. Ghosts. Flickers at the edge of sight.

The unknown doctor gave him another injection.

_Why do I hurt so much? What happened? I don't remember being this skinny, this weak. So hard to think, hard to remember._

_Must get the pain under control._

… control …

… … control …

… … … c o n t r o l …

… … … … c . o . n . t . r . o . l …

#

Doctor Topol sat at the head of the conference room table, his long ears flicking in agitation. Rajid and Capra flanked him. "So he's out again, for the moment. But I have no guarantee that he won't regain consciousness. This is by far the strangest case of my career." He shot them a close-lidded glance. "And you're serious about keeping my notes?"

"It is a matter of …"

"Yeah, national security, I know. I know." A sigh leaked out. "Still, if you could allow me one article for peer review …"

"I am sorry, Doctor, but that is out of the question. You were aware of the limits on dissemination of information concerning this case when you accepted it."

Dr. Topol slumped a little. "Yeah. Right. Okay. But how about a consult?"

"You have him adequately sedated at present, do you not?"

"Well, yes, but he just shrugged off everything else, and that system of his might figure a way around this one, too."

Capra asked, "Howja do it? What's diff'rent about dis stuff?"

"Ah. Well, I'd exhausted all the synthetics I knew about, so mostly out of desperation I tried a combination of herbals. All-natural stuff, but in _really_ high concentrations. I didn't expect it to work, but it did. And honestly, I wouldn't call his current state sedated. More like very, very relaxed. He's not zonked, he's sleeping."

"And probably for the best," said Rajid.

"Yeah. I gotta give ya dat, Doc. Dat kinda pain woulda killed most furs." Capra stood. "Raj, I gotta meet wit' Wayne about dat Cross Keys t'ing."

"Of course. Please tell Wayne that he owes me two days worth of updates for that case."

"Will do." And he left.

Rajid turned back to the other fur. "Doctor Topol, I am not trying to be difficult to work with, but you must appreciate my position. The patient is part of a top secret project, and no data concerning his physiology may leave this building."

"I do understand. But it's frustrating to work under these conditions when I'm used to being able to draw upon the combined experience of my colleagues."

"And you have my sympathy for that. We will do everything in our power to give you access to the information you need, but the flow must always be one-way."

"Eh. If that's the way it is, I'll deal with it." He rose. "Meanwhile, I'd like to catch a nap if I could. Last night was rough."

"By all means. I'll have someone show you to a guest room."

##


	7. Chapter 2 Nothing Like A Homecoming C

_**Chapter Two – Nothing Like a Homecoming – Part C**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil  
><strong>**to one who is striking at the root.**

_**-Henry David Thoreau**_

##

_** Saturday 28 October 2017 – Early Morning **_

Hamadi Gafah had learned many years earlier that attention to detail was the successful dictator's key to a long life. He never took chances with his personal safety. His capitol city was a fortress, and he garrisoned three full battalions of his army there at all times. His palace, situated near the city center, was defended with the latest in electronic security and high-tech measures. The walls of his personal rooms were layered with superalloy composites and whisker-reinforced tuffcrete. His cadre of bodyguards carried within their own skins tiny capsules containing two things: microscopic receivers that were keyed to Gafah's heart rate, and a miniscule vial of an exceptionally virulent poison that would be released if that heart ever stopped. It made them vigilant.

So most nights, since consolidating his control of this country, Gafah slept soundly. He figured that no force small enough to manage a clandestine penetration would have the firepower necessary to get to him, and any force that _did_ carry that kind of ordnance would be too large to be very wieldy. Privately, he had been confident for several years that such a force did not exist, at least not on this planet. That is, he'd felt that way until the recent unpleasantness involving that never-sufficiently-damned wolverine, may Hell's demons dine on his eyes. The jackal had spent a great deal of time kicking himself over his thirst for revenge. He should have simply beheaded Gamma and been done with it, but, noooooo, he had to make him suffer instead. And now he very much feared that the wolverine still lived. He had no reason to believe otherwise.

Gafah had personally attended the interrogation of the three relatively close eyewitnesses who had lived, and the two guards who'd been watching from a tower via binoculars. While many of the details varied, they all maintained – even under his most strenuous methods of persuasion – that the black devil who had taken him down off that cross had vanished. He had simply blinked out of existence, leaving behind a hectare of frozen corpses and blasted and crumbling buildings.

With that weighing on his mind for the last few weeks, he had not slept well at all. Since his return soon after the events of that Thursday's dawn, he'd had his scientists scrambling to find out everything they could about teleportation, but all they turned up involved the quantum variety that was being used in certain supercomputers. The big-brains assured him that macro-scale teleportation was not possible. Yet, the eyewitnesses assured him that teleportation was precisely what had occurred.

And Gafah's deeply-hidden fears were making altogether too much noise to let him rest.

Over the past several days his mounting paranoia had led him to close the borders and send the few remaining diplomats packing. He recalled enough of his army to swell the ranks in the city to well over a division. He posted guards in every hall in the palace. He had surveillance cameras installed in his sleeping chamber. But in the end, none of it did him any good.

His dreams had been especially troubled this past night. Normally he awoke slowly, coming into possession of his faculties over a period of many minutes, but this morning he flashed into full alert, his mind going hard and cold. Something had shifted … a slight jarring sensation. When he fell asleep, the wall opposite his bed had been a light cream color. Now it was gray, an industrial, utilitarian gray. He sat up, jerking the pistol from under his pillow.

"Good morning!"

Gafah spun to his right and drew a bead on the figure in the chair. He thought for a fraction of a second that it was Gamma, but then he realized that although he was a wolverine as well, this fur was much smaller than his old enemy. He barked, "Who are you?"

"Name's Matt Sinclair. That likely won't mean anything to you, not unless you know something about art."

"Sinclair? You are Sinclair the painter?"

"Oh, you _do_ know me! How delightful."

Gafah frowned in puzzlement. He looked around the room: it was cubical and small; maybe five meters on a side, with no doors, no windows. No obvious means of egress of any sort, although there were two very small grates in opposite corners of the ceiling, and a central light panel. A metal cupboard-like thing stood against one wall, holding what appeared to be boxes of shelf-stable food items. There was a water dispenser beside it, and ten large refill bottles. In the center of the adjacent wall there was a simple toilet and a small washstand. And that was all. With the exception of the bed, everything in the room – all the containers, the toilet, everything – was the same monotonous shade of gray. But … this _was_ certainly his own bed … wasn't it? He swung his legs around so that he could sit facing this fur, the muzzle of his pistol never wavering. "What have you done with me? Where is this place? Are we in some other room in the palace?"

"Eh … heh. No, Mr. Gafah. We are not in the palace. We are a very, very long way away from the palace."

The jackal aimed his weapon at a spot mid-way between Matt's eyes. "You should have searched me more carefully. You will now take me out of here."

"Actually, no, I don't believe I'll be doing that."

"Unless you wish to die, you will."

Matt chuckled. "Let's assume for the sake of argument that you had even a remote chance of killing me. What, then, would you do? You can't get out of this room." Matt's tone was conversational … friendly, even. "That's a month's supply of food and water over there. If you are really, really careful with your rations you might be able to stretch it to two months, and the water to three if you only use it to drink, but after that you will die of dehydration, which, I might point out, is an extraordinarily uncomfortable death. And I can guarantee that no one else will be coming by to visit." A hard edge sharpened his voice. "No, I am _quite_ sure that mine is the last face you will ever see in this life." He leaned forward slightly for emphasis. "Ever."

Gafah shouted, "Then I'll see you in hell!" and he pulled the trigger. There was a significant muzzle flash. He was fond of larger calibers. But the wolverine didn't fall over. The wall behind him didn't get liberally splashed with his gray matter. Instead, there was a brief and very slight distortion, akin to the heat waves one might see above a well-stoked wood stove. Gafah fired again, and then again, not believing his own eyes.

"I wouldn't use up all those bullets, if I were you. You might need one later."

The jackal shrieked, "Demon!"

"Oh, I hardly think I qualify. I'm really nothing but a dispenser of justice." Matt stood then, a sinuous figure whose perfect control and lithe motions were not lost on the jackal. "No, you've been working on that title for quite a while yourself. Or weren't you aware that the rank-and-file subjects of your tyranny refer to you as 'The Demon King'?"

Gafah growled in rage and popped off another round at Matt.

"Now, listen, I was serious about you wasting your bullets. I'm not bringing you any more ammo, so if you run out, you run out."

"Why won't you _**die?**"_

"It's not my turn."

The jackal dropped the gun and leaped at Matt, but almost instantly found himself with his face pressed hard into the floor and three excruciatingly sensitive pressure points screaming at him for relief.

"That wasn't very smart," Matt's voice came from just behind his ear, "I might even go so far as to say it was a little out of character."

Gafah began to curse in frustration. Matt released him and sat back down. It took the jackal nearly half a minute to get his numbed and twisted limbs to cooperate well enough to put him back into a sitting position, and neither spoke until he had.

"Hear, my sentence, Hamadi Gafah: you are hereby remanded to the custody of the One Guardian, to be placed into solitary confinement for the remainder of your days, however long they might be."

"Wh-who?"

"The One Guardian." He smiled a little. "That would be me."

"You have no right …"

He held up a paw. "No. Don't even start. You are arguably the _last_ fur on Earth with the standing to be petitioning for clemency on the basis of rights. You revoked the rights of every last fur under your control. From now on, you have no rights. Period. You will stay here."

"And where, exactly, is 'here'?"

Matt stood, and looked the jackal in the eye. "The continent of Antarctica is covered with a sheet of ice. It gets pretty thick in places, some six or seven kilometers, depending on the ground under it. And that ground is mostly rock, and very stable. You, mister Hamadi Gafah, King of Libya, Protector of Algeria (there's an ironic title for you), Potentate of North Sudan, and so on, and so forth, are in a chamber that I formed in the center of an extremely large chunk of granite on the Antarctic mainland." He pointed upward. "There's about ten kilometers between you and fresh air in that direction."

"Antarctica?"

"Yes."

Gafah stared at him blankly. "… Antarctica?"

Matt chuckled quietly. "You know what they say about real estate, Your Majesty. Location, location, location."

Again the jackal whispered, "Antarctica?"

"I'll be taking my leave now. I'll see you in thirty days." He pointed to the cupboard. "There is a package of ball-point pens in there, and a supply of ruled paper. If you'd like to do any writing, you may."

Gafah looked over at the cupboard, then back at Matt. "Writing?"

"Yes. I'd start with confessions, if I were you. I understand they are good for the soul."

"But how …" And the wolverine was gone. Gafah felt a chill of air pass over him, and noticed a slight rime of frost on the floor. It began to sublimate almost immediately.

##


	8. Chapter 2 Nothing Like A Homecoming D

_**Chapter Two – Nothing Like a Homecoming – Part D**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.**

_**-Michel de Montaigne**_

##

_** Monday 30 October 2017 – Near Boston – Late Morning **_

Dr. Topol came bustling into the observation room, raking claws through the unruly headfur between his ears with one paw while entering data into a PA with the other. He called, "Hey, Jeff," to the bespectacled cat at the monitor desk.

"Hey, Doc."

"How's Sleeping Beauty?"

"He doesn't snore, I'll give him that."

"What about the restless-leg problem?"

"We upped his calcium and phosphorus like you asked, and it didn't seem to bother him all night."

"Good. Good." He came to stand behind the cat and surveyed the various instruments that tracked the wolverine's physical statistics. "I see the overall nutrient uptake increased."

"Yep. I'd call that a good sign. According to Kira it sorta spiked around 0100 hours and then leveled off at a new plateau. That's where it was when I got here at 0700. But it's been creeping up again since 0930."

"Huh. So it is. Excellent." He read through his notes again and then started the power-up sequence for the kirlian array.

"Takin' more of those pretty pictures, eh?"

"His daily dose. If yesterday's progression wasn't a fluke, and his metabolism remains stable, we might be able to start waking him up in a day or three."

Several minutes later the doctor was studying Karl's electromagnetic aura, and nodding in satisfaction. "Looks like that latest tweak did the trick. His randomization is down nearly thirty percent."

"Some of the violet's faded, too."

"Ha! You're right. That means we can increase the pantothenic acid and …"

"Ya know," observed Capra from the doorway, "fer a couple o' furs who jist met each uddah t'ree days ago, youse guys 'r awful chummy."

"It's a commonality of purpose, my good fellow," said the doctor airily, "the shared goal of bringing this poor unfortunate back to his senses."

"Yeah," said Jeff, "and the Doc's got a wicked sense of humor, too."

"Thankyew, thankyew," the physician replied. "I'm here all week. Try the veal."

Capra gave them three claps of a slow and measured applause, then stuck his paws back into his pockets. "Da show ain't bad, but it happens I don' much like veal." He walked over to them. "Whaddaya got f'r me? Raj'll be wantin' 'is update."

They explained the situation, ending with, "So if this holds steady we can start to wean him off the herbal concoction sometime Wednesday."

"Sounds good ta me." He waved a paw at them. "Like da guy said on dat ol' space-opera show, make it so."

##

_** Tuesday 31 October 2017 – Near Boston – 4:45pm **_

Matt paced across Rajid's office, mulling over what he'd just been told. He stopped in front of the dapper mongoose and said, "So basically you want me to lie to Wendy."

"Absolutely not! I simply want you to give her a minimum of information until we find out the extent of the damage. There is no harm in playing your cards close to your chest."

Slowly leaning forward so he could rest his fists on the desk, Matt brought his eyes level with Rajid's. "They aren't _**my**_ cards."

"I am trying to spare her feelings. If she thinks he has forgotten her …"

"Yeah, I get it. But if he's _that_ … badly damaged, she's going to find out sooner or later. You don't know how persistent that vixen can be."

"Oh, I have an idea. But my point remains. There is no reason for borrowing trouble when we are not sure of how the situation will fall out."

Matt picked a chair and flopped into it. "You're waking him up tomorrow?"

"That is the plan, yes. But I would appreciate it if Wendy remained unaware of it. Such knowledge would only worry her needlessly."

"Tell you what. I'll just be elsewhere until then. I can't lie to her if I don't see her."

"I am not asking you to …"

"I know what you're asking. But you need to understand this: she has invented some entirely new ways to apply the 'third degree', coated in honey and garnished with a smile so that it's nearly undetectable. I seriously doubt that I could talk to her for ten minutes without either spilling the beans or being forced to lie. So, in the interest of maintaining your 'security' I'll make myself scarce."

"As I said before, this is not a security issue. It is a peace of mind issue. I am not trying to _mislead_ Wendy. I am trying to spare her needless _anguish_."

"Since when are you numbered among the puppies-and-lollipops crowd?"

Rajid gave an exasperated huff. "_Mr._ Sinclair. You make it sound as if I have a history of delighting in the pain of others. This is not the case, nor has it ever been."

"That's not what I …"

"Moreover, if you have spent any considerable time in Mrs. Gulo's company, you will doubtless be aware that she is of a very sensitive nature."

"Yes, I suppose you could put it …"

"Furthermore, she is as much in love with her husband as any lady I have ever met, and so his pain is her pain."

"Well, obviously, but …"

"So why would you think – even for a _moment_ – that I would not take pains to save her from misery if it were in my power to do so, when it costs us nothing?"

"Okay! _Lord_, Rajid, I'm sorry! I'll stick your name in the hat for sainthood next time I have tea with the Pope."

"Sarcasm does not become you, Mr. Sinclair."

"Yeah, well," he replied, standing, "neither does deceit." He gave the mongoose an abbreviated salute. "Be seeing ya." And he was gone.

The wave of cold that rolled over Rajid then made him clench his teeth and trot for the door. He left it open to air out while he stood in the hall, grumbling to himself about spiteful, super-powered wolverines.

##

_** Thursday 02 November 2017 – Near Boston – 4:45pm **_

"Shouldn't he be … I dunno, moving or something by now?"

"Patience is a virtue, Jeff."

"But look at the EEG! The Lambda Wave! He's all but …"

"And there we are. See? The instruments never lie."

Capra, who had been hanging back, stepped up so that he'd be in Karl's line-of-sight.

The big wolverine's chest heaved as he drew a deeper breath than before. One arm flopped up and out, and then his eyes opened. "Capra?"

"Got it in one, Bub. How d' ya feel?"

"… Tired. Sore."

"Dat foist time ya come to, ya said evaht'ing hoit."

His gaze unfocused as he tried to recall those events. "Yeah … it hurt."

"Does it hoit dat bad dis time?"

"… I … don't know. I … guess not?"

"So are ya controllin' da pain, or is dere not dat much ta control?"

Karl pressed his fists into his eyes. "I don't know. Capra … what the hell happened?"

"Whaddaya remembah?"

"I …" _Calm, now, Karl. Calm and slow. Let it come slowly, naturally. It'll come if you let it._ "I remember … an attack."

"Okay. Dat narrahs it down ta da last decade or so. Who was ya fightin'?"

He let his eyelids drop. _Who?_ The images ran helter-skelter through his mind. _Grab them! Hold them!_ "Snowmobiles. Automatic rifles. They fired through the windows." His eyes sought Capra's. "It was right after Groundhog Day. At the old Vulpin place." A frisson of shock crashed across his face and he yelled, "Wendy! She … she … wait. No, she was safe. I got her out. … I _did_ get her out, didn't I?"

"Yeh! Ya did. Den what?"

"It was … it was the Cartel. I saw Snapfinger. Smashed him into a piano. And Jeremiah Bruin. First one I got, in the hall. Capra! She was so scared! She'd never seen anybody killed before. Damn!"

"It's okay, Beorn. Ya got 'er away. She's safe now, an' worried half ta death about ya."

"I … did? We went … where they couldn't … but they … no, they _did_." _Snowscapes, flitting past below at high speed. Wendy, chained to a bed. The remains of a TFN operative being dumped into a hog lot._ "She ran away." Then another scrap of memory solidified, slamming him back in time.

_. . . . . . . "In the last, what, maybe five minutes,  
>I've had eight months worth of my work, hard work, demolished."<br>She looked directly at him. "How am I supposed to feel?"  
>She sighed. And sighed again, more deeply.<br>Her eyes began to tear up again._  
><em>"Just let me alone. I've got way too much to do here now,<br>thanks to your 'buds',  
>to go haring around the countryside looking for more of 'em."<br>Her gaze roamed around the shattered kitchen and she shook her head.  
>"I need a broom." . . . . . . .<em>

"Oh, God! Oh, shit! Capra! She hates me! I screwed up her life and she hates me!"

"What? No, ya didn't! She's waitin' on …"

But Karl doubled up, grabbed his head, and screamed.

Dr. Topol scrambled over to the table, pushed Capra out of the way, and socked a hypodermic home in Karl's neck. "Jeff! Where's the Lambda Line?"

"Peaking at eighteen, with a period of … looks like four seconds."

"Damn! He was stable! What the hell?"

Capra asked, "What's wrong wit' 'im, Doc?"

"I wish to God I knew! This is crazy. People don't _do_ what he's doing. They just _don't!_"

The wolverine was visibly relaxing. He looked up at the doctor with a sleepy smile. "Heeeeeey, Doc."

"How's your head?"

"Weee're doin' great. Jussss … peachy."

"Do you know what month this is?"

"Yeah, suuuure, it's Mmmmmmarsshhh."

Capra and the doctor looked at each other. The shaggy agent leaned down and got Karl's attention. "Beorn? What's da last t'ing ya can remembah?"

"Remember … remember a … blue. It's a blue."

"Huh? Blue what?"

"Pretty blue! It's a necklace. I gave it to her, Capra, an' she loved it." His smiled slowly damped, his face going slack. "But it made her sad. I made her sad, Capra. I didn' wanna make 'er sad."

Dr. Topol asked, "Do you get the reference?"

"Not a clue."

Karl yawned and turned on his side. "Gonna sleep now."

Jeff called, "Period just jumped to nine seconds. Peaks around fifteen."

The doctor tossed the hypodermic into the 'sharps' bin and slumped down onto the edge of the table. "Well, shit."

##


	9. Chapter 2 Nothing Like A Homecoming E

_**Chapter Two – Nothing Like a Homecoming – Part E**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Saturday 04 November 2017 – Near Boston – 1:15pm **_

Karl sat in the recliner, a warm towel on his forehead. "I'm hungry."

"We'll be through with this session in ten or fifteen minutes. Almost done."

The big fur lifted the towel from his face, held it in front of him, and ripped it in half. "I'm hungry now."

"… Yes, so I see. Perhaps we can pick this up later, after you've eaten."

"What a good idea." He rose and stalked out of the room.

A few seconds later, Rajid walked in through the other door, the one that led to the observation booth. "That … did not go well."

The elderly mouse dropped her notepad onto the chair as she stood. "He is very frustrated."

"So I gathered."

"He's not the worst one I've worked with. There was a PTSD case from the Gulf War that wouldn't even meet anyone's eyes. Ever."

"Were you able to help him?"

"Her. And yes, to a degree. If Mr. Gulo's neural networks heal, I feel sure he will be able to cope with everything else. That is his biggest stumbling block."

"Indeed. His memory was perfect. That it is in such a shambles now must be a tremendous strain on his psyche."

"That may be contributing to the hallucinations."

Rajid's muzzle dropped open. "Hallucinations? I was not aware …"

"Oh, yes. Earlier this morning he was having an animated conversation with someone named Phoebe."

Rajid's paw found its way to his forehead. "Oh, dear God."

"I was going to ask you about that. Do you know who Phoebe is?"

"She was a teammate of his, and his lover."

"Was?"

"She's dead."

"Ah."

"Killed on a mission ten years ago."

"That explains much. He was arguing or begging or something, quite heatedly, and wanted her to stay away from him, that it was dangerous to be around him."

"Eh? Are you sure it was only Phoebe that he mentioned?"

"Why do you ask?"

"It would make more sense for him to feel that way about Wendy."

"His wife, yes. Apparently he doesn't remember much about her. They have only been married a few months, haven't they?"

"Well, yes, but their love is exceedingly intense."

"_Was_ intense. He remembers hardly anything after about the beginning of April. His file says they were married on the fifth of July."

"That is true, but …" He stopped himself. He'd had a similar conversation with Matt a little while ago, only in reverse. But Matt had convinced him of the quality and quantity of emotion the couple shared. He wouldn't give specifics of how he knew, which had led Rajid to suspect some additional abilities on his part, besides the obvious.

"But what?"

"I have reason to believe that they were deeply in love for some time prior to their marriage. Surely he recalls that much."

"Probably. We haven't been able to do much real work, so I don't have a lot to go on yet. He gets agitated very easily."

"So I noticed."

"If he calms down enough I would like to pick up our session again at four o'clock."

"I'll do my best to get him here."

#

_** 2:30pm **_

He kept catching glances of Phoebe out of the corner of his eye. He thought it was her. Wendy didn't like guns, and so probably wouldn't be standing around with an automatic rifle slung over one arm.

_**[ [ I'm right here. ] ]**_

"Ah-ha! I knew it was you!"

_**[ [ Quit trying so hard. ]]**_

"If you'd hold still I wouldn't have to try at all."

_**[ [ You've got some decisions to make, Beorn. ] ]**_

"You think I don't know that?"

_**[ [ You want her to end up like me? ] ]**_

"Wait … who are we talking about?"

_**[ [ That girl you met … the one that looks so much like me. ] ]**_

"Oh! Yeah, Wendy. Thought she was you. Spooky. ] ]

_**[ [ The difference being that she's real and I'm not. ] ]**_

"Oh, yeah? If you're not real, how are we talking?"

The flickering stopped, as did the conversation. He looked around, frowning, then blinked a few times as the realization of what he'd been doing hit home. He went over to his bunk and flopped out across it. "I'm doing it again. Talking with Phoebe when she really isn't there. She's dead." _Okay, then, hotshot, if she's dead, who were you talking with?_ "Isn't it obvious? I'm hallucinating. Whatever those jerks did to me fried my brain." _A tad convenient, I say._ "Maybe. But either I'm hearing things, or communicating with a dead girl. No matter which, it's not helping." _She's right, though. You have to consider Wendy._

Wendy! He sat up, suddenly very frightened. "Is she … no, wait … Capra said she was okay. He said we got away." He shook his head, then held it tightly. "Now I remember! We fell in … no, that's not right. _**I**_ fell in love with _**her**_. But she doesn't see me that way. She just wanted me for sex, and I wouldn't do that for her." _Wait, that's right! I became a Christian! Huh. When did that happen?_ "Hang on, I think I remember. It was Martin. And Alan. But not Wendy. No, now I remember … we talked about that. She's … mad at God." _Wendy doesn't love you. You need to let her go. You need to stop screwing up her life._ "But I didn't mean to! Honest! I just wanted … just … wanted to be close to her." _And that almost got her killed, more than once. Don't you remember?_

Yes, he did remember. And every time he tried to distract himself, every time he tried to ignore it, the voices just got more insistent. The various scenes played over and over, a continuous loop of mounting guilt as the memories he wanted so badly to suppress refused to die.

_. . . . . . . The breath caught in her throat. "Nothing ever lasted,  
>ever worked. Not really. Not my family, not my schooling, n-not<br>my m-m-marriage, not m-my ca-career. N-not my . . ."  
>She sniffled hard and leaned her head down slowly onto her paws.<br>"My being – being – a m-mother." . . . . . . ._

_. . . . . . . "Please just leave! Take your 'bad timing'  
>and go screw up somebody else's life." . . . . . . .<em>

_. . . . . . . So now the Trenchant Furs had some questions for her …  
>questions they would rather ask in private,<br>where no one could hear her screams. . . . . . . ._

_. . . . . . . He leaned back and took a long breath.  
>"What would you have had me do differently?"<em>

"_I want the truth!  
>Not bits and pieces, not the skin of a truth<br>taxidermied onto a pack of lies.  
>The whole truth!" . . . . . . .<em>

_. . . . . . . "This situation," he continued, spreading his arms  
>to include their surroundings, "is what I was trying to avoid.<br>Simply by virtue of being identified as important to me, you  
>become a target. I wanted to keep you at arm's length.<br>I wanted to keep you safe."_

"_Oh, and we can see how wonderfully well that worked." _

"_I'm sorry! Okay? I'm sorry I wrecked your house and I'm  
>sorry I brought you here. Had to bring you here. I'm sorry<br>I've destroyed your life. Okay? I owe you a life." . . . . . . ._

"I owe you a life," he whispered. "So sorry. So terribly, terribly sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Never meant to pull you into this mess." He paced the length of his room, as he had done for the last half-hour, nearly bumping his snout on the wall at each end. "I only wanted to love you! I can't even do _that_ right." He stopped in the center of the windowless chamber, staring at nothing. "Seven months. They say it's November now." Rajid and the psychiatrist, Dr. Rispin, had explained how Karl came to be in his current state, the tortures he'd been subjected to and the unfortunate results. He could recall none of it, and that void shook him as nothing in his previous experience, save Phoebe's death.

Phoebe. Wendy. He had an inordinate amount of difficulty keeping the two separate. He _knew_ they were separate, _knew_ Phoebe was dead and Wendy lived, _knew_ he had met her in Vermont, in June of the previous year. But the knowledge was … vague. Tainted. Tenuous. Almost as if it were not his own. He knew of the theories of "memory RNA", of how someone's memory might be transplanted into someone else, and he thought that if it were true, the transplanted memories might feel something like this.

"I owe her a life. I owe it to her to see that she has a chance at a normal life."

He reviewed his feelings again. He knew he loved her, had loved her practically from the moment they met. But everything he tried invariably ended in disaster.

"She almost died. At least three times that I can remember, and probably a lot more. God, I wish I could remember! Seven _months!_ The entire _world_ could change in seven months!"

_You know what you have to do._

"Go away."

_Again, I will remind you that you can't leave yourself. Not and stay sane._

"Maybe I don't want to be sane."

_Well you sure aren't far off now._

He sat on his bunk, head in his paws, until one of the staff came to get him for his four- o'clock session.

#

_** 6:00pm **_

Rajid looked at Dr. Rispin askance. "Are you absolutely _certain_ that is what he meant?"

"Yes, Director. We went over it several times. He is quite adamant in his decision."

"And the only explanation he would give is, 'It's for her own good.'? I must admit to being unable to understand this."

"I can give you my analysis, if you like."

"Pray do so."

"He loves her. My earlier impression, that he'd basically forgotten her, was patently false. He remembers her perfectly. He just doesn't remember anything past very early April, nothing coherent that is. So he doesn't remember them getting married, and dismissed the idea out of paw when I brought it up. Told me not to make ludicrous claims just to assuage his feelings. I asked him whether he thought it was fair to her to leave her completely out of this decision loop, and he said that he could no longer, in good conscience, inflict himself on her. When I pressed him for details he told me that I wouldn't understand and, again, that it was for her own good. And then he tossed me out."

"Maybe I should speak with him."

"I don't have any clinical reason why you shouldn't, so if you think it will help, then by all means, talk to him. But I have rarely seen such resolve. I don't think you will accomplish much."

"I have to try, for Wendy's sake. If you had talked with her, had seen her, you would know that. She is most desperately in love with him, and I think if she understands that he has … _rejected_ her, the consequences would be … tragic."

"Then you do what you think best. I will support you as much as I can. But as of right this minute, he wants her to have nothing to do with him ever again. I could tell that it was tearing him apart to say so, but his mind is, nevertheless, made up."

Rajid sat back in his chair, deflated. "Very well. But I am going to have to think very hard about what I am to tell Wendy when she calls in the morning. And believe me, she will."

##

**Here Ends Chapter Two**


	10. Chapter 3 Picking Up the Threads Part A

**_Chapter Three – Picking Up the Threads - Part A_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**The body is a house of many windows:  
><strong>**there we all sit, showing ourselves  
><strong>**and crying on the passers-by to come and love us.**

**-**_**Robert Louis Stevenson**_

##

_** Wednesday 08 November 2017 – Ash Creek Inn – 3:20pm **_

Rays of the warm afternoon sun spilled into the second floor of the Folly, refracted and reflected by the hundreds of beveled edges in the small, diamond-shaped panes, cascading in dizzying patterns around the room. Several stuffed chairs sat haphazardly around the huge, plush Oriental rug that covered the middle three-fifths of the floor. Wendy had parked one in front of the center window, reclining in it languidly, eyes closed, basking in the light.

_This is very, very different from last November._

A year ago the Northeast was marching headlong into one of the coldest winters on record. A year ago, she had been mourning Ellen's absence as the girl packed for a two-week trip to Mexico. A year ago her plans for a major catering gig occupied most of her waking hours.

_A year ago I wasn't wondering whether the perfect mate I'd waited for all my life would ever be well enough to come back to me._

"Stop it. You just have to be patient. He's alive. He will get better."

_If God really cares about him, and isn't just having a laugh at our expense, he should go ahead and heal him._

She chuckled wryly and chided herself for considering possible aid from a quarter whence she knew no mercy would come. "I don't care. It doesn't matter. He _will_ get better. He has to. That will have to suffice for now."

On her way to the Inn this morning, she stopped by Quinn's. The old raccoon was in his accustomed spot by the stove, rocking along, just as laconic as ever and just as happy to see her. They sat and talked for well over an hour, until she had to leave to get some lunch, and much of the news startled Wendy. October had been a busy month.

Elly Tabb died one morning at the diner. On her way to refill a customer's coffee, she simply fainted and never regained consciousness. Quinn figured it was a stroke. Since she had no heirs, the diner was currently closed. They were still trying to find out whether she'd left a will.

Pastor Grey's oldest daughter was engaged. From what Quinn had heard, Alan wasn't too happy about her choice. The boy had a couple years' worth of college under his belt, but had dropped out to do custom remodeling work. It was steady, and the kid was good at it and enjoyed it, but Alan thought it was a bad omen for Amelia's educational future.

All Red Raines's friends and acquaintances were talking about how he'd locked up his business a week ago last Thursday, gotten on Cheetaur's great big RV, and hit the road. Red's cousin got one post card from Virginia on Monday, bluntly stating that Red and Cheetaur had "got married up" and that was it so far.

Another bit of news that really got Wendy's temper going was that Emily Jones's biological father (Cinnamon's old college boyfriend, Justin) had shown up on their doorstep one day and said he was ready to take Emily. That precipitated a major fight, her house got trashed, and she ended up in the hospital. The state police spent three days tracking him down to get Emily back, successfully as it turned out, and plant his sorry butt in jail. Cinnamon had only been back home for two days. _ I'll have to go see her tomorrow. That's one more thing we have in common now: getting tracked down and assaulted by crazy exes._

Wendy arrived at Ash Creek in a car she'd rented at the airport in Burlington. The first good chance she got, she intended to go shopping for a new van to replace the one she used to have. She had no idea what became of the old one; they'd left it behind when Karl spirited her away after the TFN attack. She'd check the local impound lot tomorrow just in case, and if it wasn't there, she'd report it stolen. But it wasn't the show-stopper it would have been a year ago. Her first act upon gaining entry to the big house was to make sure that her uncle's 'treasure chest' was still stowed in the secret room. It was, and she'd lifted a generous pawful of the silver coins to go with the ones she'd copped on her last visit and stowed in her office. They sat now, heavy in her reticule, waiting on her to visit a coin dealer over in Montpelier. She would have to see about contacting an auction house, too. Those black opals weren't doing anyone any good hiding in the dark, and she'd made up her mind to choose several and sell them.

Her stomach rumbled at her, reminding her that some three hours had slipped past since her last meal. A wide yawn was followed by a stretch. She found her feet and padded down toward the kitchen. _Gotta take inventory; find out what I need to buy to get this place running again._ Another thought occurred to her, pulling her to a stop at the bottom of the staircase. _I wonder if Ellen would be willing to come back to work for me. That is, if she can tear herself away from her ocelot long enough to answer her PA … and forgive me for acting like a jerk about her getting married. It would really be great to have her back, at least to talk to. _She only had to mull that over for a few seconds._ Yeah! I'll call her just as soon as I eat, find out how the land lays._ With that resolve in mind, she went on down the hall with somewhat more of a spring in her step.

##

_** 4:00pm **_

Wendy waited as the other end rang twice, three times, four …

"Hello?"

"Hi. This is Wendy G – um, Wendy Wylde. I'm trying to get in touch with Ellen. Do you have her number?" With no luck at reaching Ellen via her old PA number, and having been unable to locate a listing for 'Ellen Colón', she had fallen back to looking up her mother's number. She knew the lady lived in Vergennes, which helped a lot, since there were several Visons in the area.

"Wendy?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did Ellen used to work for you?"

"That she did. Do you know how I can get in touch with her?"

"Um … sure. Hang on a minute, okay?"

"No prob."

It was considerably less than a minute before an incredulous voice came on the line. "Wendy?"

"Hey! Ellen?"

"Yes! Where are you?"

"I'm at the Inn. I'm sorry I've been …"

"Wendy! Damn, it's good to hear your voice! When did you get back?"

"Just this morning. I was wondering if you'd be interested in …"

"I'll be there in two shakes! _God_, it's good to hear from you!" And the line went dead. Wendy stared at her PA for a moment before closing it. _Well. Huh. That went … better than I thought it would. I wonder what's up with her?_

##

_** 4:20pm **_

She found out very shortly after the excitable mink arrived. Ellen's old Prius screeched to a stop under the porte cochere and she was inside and wrapping Wendy in a fierce hug before the door had a chance to close. "_Damn_, woman, I missed you so _much!_"

"Missed you, too." Her voice was muffled against the taller girl's coat.

Ellen held her at arm's length and drank in a long view of her face. "Wendy! Damn! You look _good!_ I like your headfur short like that. Whatever you've been up to, it's done right by you." She brushed some of the still-wispy headfur aside and whispered, "So soft!" Then somewhat louder, she said, "My God, how'd you get your fur so soft?" But before Wendy could answer she was swept into another long embrace.

When she could draw a decent breath, the vixen said, "Something is going on. You wanna spill?"

"And how! I've wanted to talk to you about this ever since it happened. Can we go sit in the kitchen? I'd love some of your honey-chamomile tea."

"Sure. Sounds good to me." And Ellen, never releasing her paw, led them to the back of the house.

Even as Wendy was filling the kettle, the dikes burst and Ellen's story poured out. She talked, hardly slowing for a breath, for over fifteen minutes. Wendy's tea was gone and Ellen's going tepid before she started running out of words, and the tale gave Wendy a great deal to think about.

"Okay … so he's in prison now."

"Yes. Well, jail, not prison. He's on hold, you might say. He'll go to _prison_ after he's convicted."

"Oh, yeah. That's a good point about the extradition, too, and I'll have to say that detective guy is right. You need to steer clear of any less-than-legal deals with bounty hunters."

"Yeah, I know. I was just jerking his chain." She leaned forward. "But I promise you one thing: I'm gonna follow that sonuvabitch all the way through the process, and if it evens _smells_ like he might get off, I'll see to it the hunters are waiting on him."

"I'd do the same."

Ellen sat up straight and drew in a long breath. "So. That's me. What's up with you? You dropped off the face of the planet, but now you're back and you look like you've hit your fightin' weight."

"Heh. Yeah, I guess you could say that." She shrugged. "It's a long, sad story and I'm sure most of it would bore you. But the condensed version is that there were these really bad 'Bad Guys' and a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I had to run to keep from gettin' shot, and Karl helped me hide."

"Karl? Karl Luscus?"

"That's him."

"I wondered about that. Seemed like he disappeared around the same time you did. We wanted him to take a look at an antique oven Mom bought, but the shop was closed up, with no sign about when it would re-open, and nobody we asked knew where he was. I never really put the two together, though."

"Yeah. It was kinda his fault, in a roundabout way, and he took it personally. The bad guys were following him to begin with, but we …"

"Following _him?_"

"Yeah."

"What for?"

"Bad blood a long time ago. I don't have all the details." Which was _technically_ true: she didn't know every little nuance about Karl's dealings with the Cartel. And she certainly didn't feel like sharing what she _did_ know about them.

"Huh. Weird."

"Anyway, we both ended up in the same mess. It was nip and tuck there for a while, keeping out of sight, trying to lay low, stay under the radar." _And that's as much about that as you're getting, girl._

"You couldn't even call to say you were alive?"

"Well …" Wendy dropped her head guiltily. "I was … actually still kinda pissed at you for ditching me."

Ellen stared at her for a moment and then gave a short nod. "I can see that." More quietly she added, "Probably the biggest mistake I ever made in my life."

Uncharacteristically, Wendy missed the significant tone in Ellen's statement. "I've made bigger."

"Really?" One eyebrow rose in disbelief. "That'd be going some."

"But true, nonetheless."

Ellen captured Wendy's paw. "I'm sorry."

"I forgive you. It would be pretty chintzy of me to hold a grudge." She shook off the melancholy and continued, "Anyhow, according to Karl we had to stay completely off the grid. I didn't take that well, but I'll have to admit, though, he was right. I bucked his rules once, and they caught me."

"What!"

"Oh, he got me back. He's … well, to use his phrasing, he's rather more than competent. It wasn't hard for him to find me and … um, take care of the, uh, problem."

"Really? Karl? He seems like such a – a big plushie."

"Yeah, well, first impressions are way off base in his case." She slid out of her chair and took her cup and saucer over to the sink. Ellen came and stood beside her, waiting to wash her own cup. She peered at the windows and then around at the rest of the kitchen. "Hey!"

"What?"

"You had it remodeled."

"Hm?"

"The kitchen. The sinks are new, and the windows. And that's new crown molding. And the whole thing's been painted." She put her paws on her hips and demanded, "How in the world did you get all this done if you were in hiding?"

Wendy slumped a little, her paws in the sink. "I didn't. Karl had it done."

"I thought you said he was in hiding with you."

"He was. But he … well, he's got some _'mad skillz'_ where computers are concerned. He arranged to have it done by a contracting firm he knew."

Ellen's brows drew together. "Come to think of it, the windows in the South Hall looked new, too." She tapped a foot a few times and then walked purposefully into the Rear Hall. Stopping at the pantry, she opened it and looked around inside, then examined the windows along the outer wall. Wendy heard her footfalls fade out as she headed to the Main Hall. Resignedly, she started the kettle again for more tea. She figured they'd need it.

Five minutes later, Ellen came back into the kitchen, her muzzle set in a hard line. "The _whole damn place_ has been remodeled!"

"Yes. Yes, it has."

"How? That must have cost a _fortune!_"

"Nearly a million dollars, according to the itemized list they left."

Ellen's jaw dropped; she staggered into a chair. "_**How**_ much?"

"Nine hundred and thirty thousand, in round numbers."

" . . . . . . Where did Karl get that kind of money?"

"Well … um … see, he's really smart, right?"

"Yeah, okay. So?"

"So he's really, really good at picking and managing investments."

Ellen didn't know what to say to that.

"Plus, he, ah, sort of borrowed a bunch to get started. He paid it all back, and had tons left over. He's, uh, well, I guess you'd say he's rich."

" . . . . . Rich."

"Yeah." Wendy ambled over to the table. "Stinkin' rich. I don't have exact numbers, but he doesn't have to worry about how much anything costs."

"… Za?"

"Yeah. He's got computer programs set up to do the trading for him. He said he usually makes several thousand dollars a day. Some days a lot more."

"Computer programs."

"Um … yeah."

"That … he …" Ellen took a deep breath. "How long has he been doing _that?_"

"I dunno. Years?"

"Then why in God's name did he stay around here? Why run that dinky little shop?"

"You know, I had the same questions for him. He said he likes it. _Liked_ it, anyway."

"Liked? Does he not like it now?"

"He, uh, left the shop to Martin."

"… Left?" She reached over and gripped Wendy's arm. "Oh, God, is he _**dead!**_"

"Oh!" Wendy realized her mistake. "No! No, he's not dead. He gave Martin the shop because he was done with it."

"_Done_ with it?" Narrowed eyes bored into Wendy's. "Where is he?"

Wendy didn't answer right away. She pulled out a chair and straddled it, leaning her chin on the back. "He …"

"Yes? You were saying?"

"The, uh … the bad guys got him."

Ellen's paw flew to her mouth. "But you said he wasn't dead!"

"He's not. Some … old acquaintances of his rescued him. He's had to … um … well, he's in a special hospital."

"Uh … is he … okay?"

Wendy squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears back by main force. The words powered their way past her lips, but were nonetheless very soft. "He will be."

"Wendy …" She scooted her chair closer. "What's wrong with him?"

The vixen shuddered and heaved a long sigh. "It's … complicated. He was tortured. He's in a lot of pain and …"

"_Tortured! __**Shit!**_" Her own eyes started to glisten. "Who _are_ those people? Why would they … how could they … ?"

"Because they were evil. Horribly, desperately evil. I don't understand evil, though I've seen my fair share of it. I can't explain evil, Ellen. I don't think anybody can."

The whistling of the kettle pulled her off the chair and over to the stove.

Ellen said, "Yeah. I could use some more tea."

"Me, too."

##

_** 7:00pm **_

Wendy managed, artfully, to steer the conversation back to Ellen, which turned out to be an effective tactic. Once started, the mink proved voluble, going into some detail about her months with Colón. It had been so idyllic at first; he was devastatingly charming, and knew just how to make her feel like the most special girl on earth. All the while he was worming his way into her mother's confidence, learning how to access her various accounts. She had quite a nice inheritance from an aunt, and a perpetual trust that her lawyer had worked out with the insurance company after Ellen's grandfather died on a business trip. Colón had cleaned them out. Ellen caught him just as he was leaving with the last of it, a fight had ensued, and she got stabbed, right there in the parking lot at the bank. Wendy had already heard the rest. "So, anyway, the law-enforcement types are trying to track down what he did with Mom's money."

"Good grief."

"Mom's pretty philosophical about it. She hadn't been using it, just letting it accrue interest. She was saving it as a sort of inheritance for me, and she feels really bad _for me_, but I told her not to sweat it. I don't know what I'd do with a big ol' pile o' money if I had it, and I make enough to suit me for the time being."

"Where are you working?"

"Right now I'm part time over at the Hartmon Seed Company; been there a couple months. I do computer stuff for 'em, you know, set up their website and maintain it and so on."

"You like the work?"

"Yeah, I guess. It's okay. It's steady."

Wendy gave her a contemplative look. "So I don't suppose you would want to come back to work here?"

The mink shot up out of her seat. "Are you kidding! I'd jump on it!"

That brought a smile to Wendy's face. "Geez, girl, I wasn't expecting such an enthusiastic reaction."

"Were you _asleep_ when I was here before? It was a _blast_ working with you!"

"Is that right? Well that's good to know, because I really enjoyed working with you, too, and it would be awesome to have you back out here."

"Well, hey, being with you _**is**_ awesome! I love it."_ Ellen, she's giving you an opening. Don't flub this!_ She stepped over and took the vixen's paw. "Actually …" _Just breathe, Ellen, just breathe._ "For that matter, I … I love _you_." And she stood there, eyes locked on Wendy's, her paw transmitting just the slightest tremble.

Wendy felt her blood chasing itself all over her body, leaving hot and cold spots everywhere. She knew a lot of that had to be leakage from Ellen, and stiffened her mental shield in response. "… Really?"

Ellen nodded. "I should have said … That is, I mean, I've had time to do a lot of thinking over the past few months, and I … what I realized … what I – what I _understand_ is-is-is that you were … I mean, you and me – that is, it was so great and you and I could … if it's, you know, if it's what you want." She huffed in frustration, closed the last small gap remaining between them and slipped her arms up around Wendy's waist. "I'm, uh … I'm mucking this up pretty badly, aren't I?"

Wendy's smile was still there. "Yeah, pretty much."

"_Ohhh!_ Dammit, you're supposed to say something soothing, like 'Not at all' or 'It doesn't matter' or – or something!"

"Okay." And her smile faltered. "It doesn't matter."

"… Doesn't it?" This came out very quietly.

Wendy shook her head.

Releasing her, Ellen took a step back. "This was a mistake, wasn't it? I moved too fast, didn't I?"

A small sigh escaping her, Wendy gave her head another shake. "Truthfully? Fast or slow or anything in between, it wouldn't make any difference."

Turning away to hide her furious blush, Ellen said, "I'm such a total loss. I screw up everything! I'm sorry I came by, Wendy, just pretend I never came by." She only made it two steps before Wendy's arms were around her.

"Ellen! Wait."

The mink froze.

"You … you need to hear some more of the story."

"Story?"

"Ah … yeah. Sit down?"

"… Okay." And they both sat.

Wendy cleared her throat, gazing intently into Ellen's eyes. "First off, you need to know how much it hurt when you left."

"When _**I**_ left?"

"And when you brought that ocelot back with you."

"Oh. Yeah, you were pretty upset, weren't you?"

"Heh. 'Pretty upset'. I could barely breathe. You kicked my world out from under me."

Her eyes got big, her paw went to her throat, but Ellen said nothing.

"I was … very much invested in you. We were very compatible, sexually, and you had an awful lot to offer. You're smart, beautiful, creative, funny. A dynamite combination."

Another hot blush fluffed the fur on Ellen's face.

"Don't be embarrassed. I'm serious. We were getting along very well, at least I thought so, and I was thinking that maybe it … it might be something that could grow into a long-term commitment. And then you got that trip to Mexico and you just … left."

"Oh, _God_, Wendy! I'm so …"

"Shh. Shh. I know. But _you_ need to know as well." She took Ellen's paw. "I was … well, okay, there's not really a better word. I was devastated. I moped around the house, getting squat accomplished, the whole time you were gone. I hired Patty to help with that big catering thing, and she did all right. We pulled it off. But the work was just a tiny fraction of what I missed about you. I needed to hold you, to know you were there and close and real and warm … and you weren't."

Tears were beginning to leak down Ellen's cheeks, matting the fur in silvery lines.

"I was a fretful wreck for a few days before you got back. I was going to cook you a 'Welcome Home' feast and then screw your joints loose for dessert. I had all kinds of plans for telling you how much I cared for you … and then you introduced Senor Colón."

"Oh, Wendy!" She wiped furiously at her eyes.

"Yeah. It was a bad shock. I didn't take it well."

"No shit! How could I … I'm so _sorry!_"

"So am I." She made sure that she had Ellen's complete attention. "In a way."

"… Huh?"

"So, okay, moving on ahead a couple of months. I was going nuts out here, stuck by myself in this great big pile of a house. Business was dead and I couldn't go anywhere. I found out that my lawyer had died, and his partner had stolen a whole bunch of money from a whole bunch of their clients, and skipped the country."

"Holy crap."

"And … well, okay, you remember how Karl and I had a sort of … 'thing'? Briefly?"

"Yeah. I thought at the time you'd make a good … hey, wait."

Wendy nodded. "I _said_ you were smart."

"He came back into the picture! That's how you got hooked into that whole 'Bad Guy' thing, isn't it?"

"Yes. Sort of. See, I, um … I really wanted to jump his bones, but as I mentioned before, he's a Christian, and he's very much committed to that marriage stuff."

"Yyyyeah, I remember you saying something like that."

"Well … he was in love with me."

"… In love? He was? Serious?"

"Very much so. But he'd convinced himself that we couldn't be together because I wouldn't fall in with his religion."

"But he loved you anyway?"

"Yep."

"That must suck."

"You have no idea. So he tracked down my money for me and …"

"Whoa! Whoa, there. How'd he do that?"

"He's good. He has a very large, very impressive, ah, set of skills."

"Huh."

"So when he got back, he started spending a lot of time out here. I didn't object. He's a great conversationalist, and has a wicked sense of humor. But one time, around the beginning of February, the Bad Guys found him. And when he came out here to work on the freezer one Saturday, they followed him." She held up a paw, indicating the kitchen. "That's why the remodeling was necessary."

Ellen's eyes got huge. "You mean it was … all _repair_ work?"

"Uh-huh. They trashed the place, but good."

"How'd you get away?"

"Karl."

The mink squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "Waitaminnit! How'd he do that?"

"Ah … when he, um, got here that day, he was in a sort of powered sled thing that, uh, skimmed over the top of the snow, and we got away in that."

"Just like that?"

"… It was, uh … really fast?"

"You're not telling me the whole story."

"No, I'm not." A sudden shudder turned her gaze away.

_. . . . . . . She staggered over to lean against a tree,  
>trying to catch her breath, until she noticed<br>a piece of jawbone, teeth still attached,  
>embedded in the trunk.<br>. . . . . . . A doberman lay crumpled in the middle of the  
>floor, and a cougar lay across the sink<br>with its head through the window._ . . . . . . .

"And you don't want the whole story. Please trust me on this."

"… Uh … okay?"

"So then … um, Karl figured out who was after us, and we went to Canada to get away."

"Why Canada?"

"It was close, and he had a house there."

"Oh."

"We … um, okay, I'll skip over a bunch of stuff, and my being stupid and getting caught and his finding me. We moved out to Alberta, to a cabin way, way, _waaaaay_ off the beaten track. Karl said it was totally off the grid, and it would take 'em a zillion years to find us and they'd give up long before that."

"Or die of old age?"

"Yeah, maybe. Anyhow, while we were out there, I figured out he was in love with me. And I realized I was in love with him."

Ellen sniffed and wiped at her eyes again. "You got some tissues?"

"In the broom closet over there."

Ellen fetched the box and sat back down before blowing her nose. "I get the feeling I'm gonna need these."

"Probably. So, to compress the story until it squeaks, we got married."

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

"Well, it's the truth. And the older I get, the more I realize how painful the truth can be. But it's still the truth."

Softly, Ellen said, "Damn."

"And, not to put too fine a point on it, but we've been through a hell of a lot together in a very short time."

"But now he's in the hospital?"

"… Yes."

"And you say he'll get better?"

Wendy's answering nod was decisive. "He will. He has to."

"Has to? Is that what the doctors say? Or is it what you need to believe to keep from going crazy?"

Wendy didn't look at her. "… I … I don't really … Ra – some – ah, the guy I talk with about his condition … he's very hopeful. It hasn't really been that long, and …" She sniffed and reached for a tissue.

"But you don't really know."

The vixen concentrated very tightly on wiping her nose.

"Wendy?"

She looked up at her friend and one-time lover.

"I thought I'd be upset, but … you know … it's kinda funny. Strange-unusual-funny, not ha-ha-funny. I really … I'm more concerned about _you_. If he doesn't get better …"

"He'll get better."

"Wendy, I can hear all the stuff going on under your words. He's hurt badly, and you're scared, and it's _okay_ to be scared." She scooted closer. "It's okay to be scared when someone you love is hurting and there's nothing you can do about it. But I want you to know …" She took Wendy's face in her paws. "I want you to _know_ … to understand and internalize this. I love you. If I can't love you as a mate, I'll love you as a friend. If you need someone to hang onto while all this works itself out, then I'm here. If you need someone to cry on, or lean on, or … or what_ever_ you need, I'm here." She pulled the vixen into a tight embrace. "And you won't be getting rid of me any time soon."

It was with a feeling of palpable relief that Wendy clung to her friend and started her crying in earnest.

##


	11. Chapter 3 Picking Up the Threads Part B

**_Chapter Three_****_ – Picking Up the Threads – Part B_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Monday 13 November 2017 – 1:20pm **_

It turned out to be surprisingly easy to get the Inn back in business. Wendy left some advertising flyers in a few of the local establishments and put a bug in Quinn's ear to the effect that the old mansion had been fully redone and the Café would be available by early the week following. Her PA started ringing the next day.

Ellen slipped right back into her old groove, holding down the 'sous chef' position with skill and panache. Last night their first 'new-old' customers came by, Mark and Janice Rounrock, and they made much over the remodeling and even more over the food, singing Wendy's praises until she blushed. They had another couple lined up for the early spot this evening, and two per night for the rest of the week. Then, three of the guest suites were booked for both Friday and Saturday nights. If Wendy hadn't been carrying such a burden of worry, she'd have basked in satisfaction. As it was, most days she barely noticed what was going on around her. She went through the motions, saw to it that Ellen had what she needed for her part, made sure everything was in order, greeted the guests and made them feel at home … but her mind was elsewhere.

It was time for her daily call to Rajid.

"… and you're absolutely _sure_ there's no change? No improvement at all?"

"Statistically, no. But, Wendy, please understand – and if I may, we _have_ discussed this before – his condition is not stable. Some days he has a great deal of control over the pain, but the effort exhausts him. Other days his mastery of his nervous system is more compromised, and all his exertions only serve to blunt the edge a bit, if that. I fear that today is one of those latter examples."

Her forehead cradled in one paw, whiskers quivering in frustration, she cursed silently at this maddening and thoroughly unfair situation. "So … how is he coping? Today?"

"He fought it through the morning, but finally gave up about two hours ago. Since then he has been sedated."

Wendy knew, because Rajid had explained it to her before, that the doctor had formulated an herbal concoction which would put Karl into a very relaxed state so that his pain would abate for a time. It wasn't technically sedation, but it achieved similar ends and everyone found it easier to refer to it that way.

"Mr. Rajid? When can I see him?"

"I am not able to give you a timetable. I wish – _truly_, I wish – that it were possible. But it is not. Not at this time. His system is too unstable. The doctor is all but going mad over the uncertainty. He has seen incremental improvement, but not enough to claim any sort of success, especially as the improvements cannot be counted upon to persist from one day to the next."

Her tail flicking and bristling in agitation, she insisted, "I _need_ to _see_ my _**husband**__**!**_"

"And so you shall, when he is ready. But until then I very much fear – and the doctor is of the same opinion – that it will only retard his recovery if he has _your_ reactions to worry about as well as his own. I am extremely sorry about the way these events have fallen out, and if I could change them I would, but I cannot."

She sat there at her desk, breathing hard, for maybe ten seconds before simply flipping the PA shut and effectively ending the conversation. She leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, and concentrated very hard on centering herself. _It is not Rajid's fault. It isn't. He didn't do this to Karl, and he's not responsible for my grief, even though I get the impression he's taking some of the blame. He's doing what he can. The __doctor__ is doing what he can. I'm sure Karl is, too._ She stood and slid her PA into a pocket. _And patience is a virtue, or so they say. But this waiting is hard. It's just so damned hard._

_#_

Hemanth Rajid sat at his desk, staring at his comm system, for about a quarter-minute before Dr. Topol noisily cleared his throat. Heavy, haunted eyes glanced up at the physician.

"Well, I suppose _some_ of what you told her was more or less true."

"What would you have _had_ me tell her? That her husband doesn't remember being married? That he doesn't seem even to _comprehend_ what we say when we tell him that he truly _is_ married? That miniscule fragments of the last seven months are all he has left of their relationship? Would that be kinder?"

"It's tough, man, but she's gonna find out sooner or later."

Rajid buried his face in his paws. "You have not met the woman. You have not … have not felt the passion … doctor, she positively radiates! It was almost phenomenal. We have to keep working with him; we _must_ help him to remember. Only then can she be brought in. It would _kill_ her to see him as he is now."

The doctor stood, wagging his head. "I don't know. I don't like it. She's family, according to you the only family he has, and she has a right to know." He studied the mongoose for a moment and then asked, "Have you thought any more on my suggestion?"

"Doctor, if showing him her photograph did not convince you of the foolhardiness of that tactic, I do not know what would."

"Yeah, okay, he freaked out."

"He destroyed the room."

"Yeah, that too. But he's been talking about it ever since. I think he's really starting to make some progress where keeping his wife and his dead lover separate are concerned."

"Not enough progress. Or have you forgotten last night already?"

Dr. Topol frowned. "His advances are … spotty. I'll give you that."

"When he can view video of his wife without mentally detonating, we may discuss re-introducing them. Not before."

"That doesn't mean that _she_ can't know about …"

"Yes! It does! Yes, doctor, that is _exactly_ what it means! I will not have _her_ death on my conscience as well!"

"I don't think he'd try to _kill_ her."

"Let him stabilize. Let him come to terms with his memory loss. When he can hold a rational discussion about Wendy without veering off into animated conversations with an invisible Phoebe, we will be in a position to revisit the idea."

Dr. Topol stalked out without another word.

##

_** Thursday 16 November 2017 – 7:10am **_

_**thok-thok-thok-thok-thok-thok-thok**_

Wendy paused, panting slightly, and moved her blindfold out of the way to peer narrowly at the seamstress's dummy she was using for a target. She jogged over and studied the pattern her throwing knives made down its front. _Hm. A little down and to the left. But not too bad, all things considered._ She replaced the blindfold and collected her knives, her paws going unerringly to their hilts without the aid of sight.

It was Tuesday night, around midnight, when she had discovered this latest development. Karl, of course, had discussed the various 'perks' that might come with her Augmented state, but the latest one that showed up wasn't on his list. She'd awakened with a dry mouth and a bad taste on her tongue and got up to get a drink. Initially she didn't really think about the way she navigated around everything in the room. She just got her water, brushed her teeth, and crawled back into bed. But when she reached over to turn off the light, the fact that it wasn't actually _**on**_ finally registered. She sat up, looking around: bedposts, dresser, armoire, chairs, ottoman, valet, mirrors, curtains. Everything was … gray. No, that wasn't right. She closed her eyes to try to get a grip on what was happening, and got a second shock: she hadn't been using vision at all. She _still_ knew where everything was.

Three hours, a generous breakfast, and seven cups of tea later, she thought she had this thing figured out. It wasn't any kind of echo-location. She couldn't 'see' the sound waves coming from her audio system. It wasn't some sort of enhanced vision, like Karl's Augment in that area. Her normal vision was unaltered, but then it always had been pretty much perfect. No, this was somehow connected with her ability to 'see' other furs via their auras. It was as if any given solid object produced an aura of its own. But the ability had some pretty distinct limits. She couldn't read the print on a newspaper or see the images in photographs or herself in a mirror. But any solid object just … 'showed up'. Light levels didn't seem to matter, or whether the substance was dense or not. If it was solid, she could sense it. Around dawn she called Ellen to tell her that she was feeling a little under the weather and not to come in until noon. Then she ate again and went back to bed for some rest.

Wednesday had seen her in Montpelier shortly after sunrise. First she disposed of a small quantity of the silver coins from Uncle Julian's chest (getting a great deal more for some of them than merely the worth of the metal) and then, _several_ thousand dollars to the good, she made the rounds of the pawn shops. Vermonters, she soon came to understand, were a staid folk, not usually given to the more esoteric forms of weaponry. No pawnbroker she talked with had anything in stock similar to what she was looking for, but one of them knew someone who knew someone who put her in touch with an old bobcat who made functional 'period' armor and weapons for reenactments and history buffs. He had what she needed already hanging on the wall in his shop.

Once outfitted to her satisfaction, she stopped in at a waffle restaurant for a generous brunch and then visited a bookstore and got a few holos on the finer points of juggling. Then she dropped by an electronics warehouse store and ordered a three-meter UHD holograph stage so she could see her holos at life-size. She paid cash for it, and for the same-day delivery that would have it waiting on her when she got back home. A trip to a specialty greengrocer for a few of the ingredients for the meals she would be serving over the next couple of days rounded out her morning. It was an extremely pleased vixen that made her way west out of town after lunch.

All of which led, logically, to this day's exercise. Wendy knew how to juggle; she picked it up while at college. But she'd never tried more than three balls at once, nor ever any object that might offer her harm. Now, however, with her superlative knack for healing wounds and her near-supernatural speed, she decided to see if she could push the limits of what was possible in the field. Learning to juggle the knives wasn't too bad, and every time she got comfortable, she'd add one. Going from five to six had been frustrating, but juggling seven took hardly any more effort than six. It was, she reflected, pretty weird.

She reached for an eighth knife to go with the seven she already held and began tossing them upward.

##

_** Sunday 19 November 2017 – 9:00pm **_

In her office, Wendy relaxed in the fancy, Corinthian-leather chair that had just shown up in place of her old one after the contractors finished all the repairs on the rambling mansion. Her breath was slow and measured, her mind a still lake as she slowly and carefully took down the barriers.

_Ellen . . . . . dancing around in the kitchen . . . . . satisfied with the way supper turned out . . . . . wondering what Wendy was up to . . . . . several short scenes involving the vixen in various stages of undress tripped quickly and pleasantly through her mind . . . . . happy sigh . . . . ._

Wendy smiled. No surprises there. She gradually tuned her out and then let out the leash on her talent a bit more.

_Arthur and Daisy Perimustel . . . . . pine martens . . . . . upstairs in their room . . . . . this trip celebrates their second anniversary . . . . . she is getting undressed, pretending not to notice him looking at her, but secretly pleased . . . . . he is watching her, but imagining her to be a different femme . . . . . a rabbit who works at the gym and who had just that week . . . . ._

She cut **that** train of thought off at the knees, slamming her barriers back in place. Then she took a minute to re-center. _Damn good thing I've got some principles. I could make a killing with blackmail._ It was probably considered impolite among the telepathic crowd, she reasoned, for an Augment to go traipsing through someone's 'private rooms' like that. She needed to test her abilities, but she didn't need to eavesdrop. Again, the shield was lowered, but she made sure to damp the emotional leakage coming from upstairs.

_Saundra Taylor . . . . . gray squirrel . . . . . sitting in an Adirondack chair on the rear porch . . . . . it's getting cold and uncomfortable . . . . . wondering what Mike was up to at that very moment . . . . . thinking about his affair with Carol Lapine . . . . . a quick picture of Carol dangling over a vat of some noxious yellow fluid . . . . . a vindictive smile came to rest on her muzzle . . . . . she'd squeeze him for every cent he had this weekend . . . . ._

She closed that one down, too. _Well, damn. Can __**no one**__ keep his pants zipped these days? I wonder if all the furs who stayed here before were as much players or victims as these seem to be._ Stretching her legs, she stood, suddenly hungry. _It's disappointing, is what it is, that so many would be like that. Well, except for Karl. And Lee and Debbye. And, ah, Chris and Sabrina for sure. Oh, and Martin … and his family. Huh. Okay, maybe it's not all bad. _She shook her head, trying to see if she could dislodge the recent images. "Let's see what Ellen has in the way of leftovers."

She could feel the exuberant mink's mind while still a good ten or fifteen meters distant, and it curled up the ends of her muzzle. She paused in the hall, leaning against a door, and opened the mental curtain just a crack.

_Deep satisfaction . . . . . love this house . . . . . get to spend a lot of time with Wendy . . . . . learning so much from her about cooking . . . . . get to see Wendy every day, talk with her every day . . . . . it's almost as good as the sex was . . . . ._

Wendy raised the barriers again and smoothed down the fur on her face where her blush had fluffed it up. A few deep breaths later she continued on into the bright light, musing on what a responsibility it was to be someone's hero. Ellen spotted her instantly and waved. "Hey, Boss-Lady!"

"Hi." She surveyed the small selection of containers and pots and carafes and asked, "Whatcha got that a hungry vixen could pounce on?"

The thought that wiggled its way in past Wendy's defenses was _**"ME!"**_ … but what Ellen said was, "Ah-ha! I got ya covered there. The Monroe's had eyes bigger than their stomachs tonight, and hardly touched the scampi." She scooped up a tray and flounced over to the vixen, who took it by the grips. "Still hot, too, 'cause it was on the chafing dish. And there's some of that herbed parsnip stuff left … and …" She went back and poked around in the containers. "Yes! This cucumber-melon-watercress salad thing; I believe it went entirely unnoticed."

"Sounds perfect." Wendy set the tray on the table, then went to the wine rack. "Aaaand let me see … yes. This '97 Laroche Chablis Grand Cru ought to do the trick." She cocked an eye at the mink. "You at all hungry?"

"Nah. I've been grazing since midway through the Strawhorne's first course. I'll have to put in an extra hour on the treadmill just to counteract those salmon puffs."

"Oh, yeah, those _are_ good." She copped a glass and sauntered over to the table. "Well, if you don't mind," she said as she seated herself, "I'll just eat right here."

"Suits me. I've just got a tad more organizing and putting-away to do, and I'll be done."

Wendy pulled out the cork and poured herself a glass of the wine. "You got any plans for the rest of the evening?"

"Nope. You?"

"Thought I'd maybe get in a little martial arts practice up in the rec room. If you wanted to stick around and spar …"

"Hells, yeah! That sounds great."

Around a generous bite of the shrimp, Wendy said, "You're awfully enthusiastic tonight."

"Aw, it's been a good day. The weather just about couldn't _get_ any better. Saundra – um, that is, Mrs. Taylor – she's a peach. We got downright chummy this afternoon. And the Perimustel's left me a fifty-dollar tip this morning."

"And then there's your Mom's money."

"Damn straight! That sunovabitch didn't have much of a chance to spend it, so she's only out a few hundred." She hugged herself. "I'll have to send Detective Smoot something really special as a thank you."

Wendy snorted around her wine. "Babe, I know _exactly_ what that fella wants, and you most _definitely_ have access to it."

"Eh. That's a thought." She ambled over and stood behind Wendy, resting her paws on the vixen's shoulders. "Don't know if I'm quite … up to that yet. Y'know?"

And she _did_ know. In some detail. Between the physical contact and Ellen's highly-charged emotional state, Wendy's standard mental barrier wasn't much use. She swallowed the bite she was working on and carefully put down her fork.

_Longing . . . . . uncertainty – for her future, for her lost relationship with Wendy . . . . . don't think about it . . . . . a heart-tugging mixture of sadness and guilt . . . . . loss . . . . . don't think about it . . . . . an ache that was almost like an amputation . . . . . don't think about it – **don't think about it** – **don't think about it** . . . . ._

Ellen's fingers gripped Wendy's pelt probably a little tighter than she meant to. The vixen turned then and looked up at the taller girl, her own eyes welling in sympathetic pain. Swiftly she stood and pulled the startled mink into a tight hug, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

_Surprise . . . . . just a little bit of fear . . . . . what the hell is happening? . . . . . why is she holding me? . . . . . oh, God, please don't let go! Never let go! . . . . . missed you so much . . . . . can she love me? How I want to be loved? How I need to be loved? . . . . ._

Increasingly it was difficult to see where Ellen's emotions stopped and hers began. The need, the hurt, was so real. So _real!_ She laid the side of her muzzle against Ellen's neck and let the tears come.

Ellen didn't quite know how to react. Her arms eased up around Wendy's back and held on tight. Something was … odd … different. Heat arose in her face, a glow she could almost see. Wendy felt so _good_, smelled _so __**good**_, and memories of all the love-making they had enjoyed came back to her in a rush. She nearly panted with the force of the emotions, and she crushed the vixen to her. Oh, _God_, how she wanted this! This very second she wanted it more than anything else she could have imagined.

Wendy was a mirror, a parabolic collector where all the emotions that each one was feeling were condensed and compounded and purified and reflected back to them both, a self-perpetuating cycle of passion that neither one understood, but which filled the both of them to the point that they felt they couldn't possibly contain it. She reached up and twined her fingers into Ellen's headfur and pulled them together in a deep kiss.

Ellen didn't understand any tiny part of what was happening. She only knew that she was exactly where she wanted to be and that she could now die happy, having felt this. She wanted to be closer, somehow closer, to purge the last vestige of space between them. If she could in some way _become_ this incredible, beautiful, dazzling …

Her eyes opened; Wendy's tears glistened there on her cheeks.

She jerked back. "Wendy?"

Panting hard, the vixen tried to clear her head. She knew something had gone wrong somewhere. But what? How? With a Herculean effort, she reestablished her mental shield, and the pulsing, terrifying, delicious storm of emotion subsided.

Ellen released her and took a step back. Wendy staggered and dropped into her chair.

"Wendy?"

The vixen propped an elbow on one knee and let her head fall into her paw. "… Yes?"

"… What happened?"

"I don't have one solitary clue."

"Are you … okay? You're crying …"

A muffled, "… _sorry_ …" squeaked out.

"Wendy? Seriously. Don't be playin' with me now. What just happened?"

Her shoulders began to shake. She raised tortured eyes to the mink and said, "I don't know. I wish I did. But I'm really, really tired now, and I think I'd better just go to bed." She got up – a bit unsteadily – and walked to the South Hall exit where she paused, seeming to search for something to add. Finally she simply shook her head, said, "Good night, Ellen," and left.

##


	12. Chapter 3 Picking Up the Threads Part C

**_Chapter Three – Picking Up the Threads – Part C_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Wednesday 22 November 2017, 8:20am **_

Ellen drove her old Prius up under the porte-cochere on the south side of the Inn, parked it and turned off the motor. But she didn't get out of the car right away. She wasn't sure yet she really ought to.

The last few days had been … well, she didn't really have words for it. She didn't come in on Monday until it was nearly time for the first meal to be served; for that matter she came very close to not showing up at all. But curiosity finally pummeled fear into submission. Besides, she knew Wendy would need her help with both dinners. Wendy, however, acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, although the tension between the two of them could have been sawed into blocks and stacked. Ellen left that night as early as was feasible. Yesterday she showed up at her normal time just after noon and tried to engage Wendy in conversation, but the vixen adroitly maneuvered the topic around to any destination except the one Ellen wanted. If the mink bulled ahead anyway and asked a question that Wendy didn't want to answer, she would suddenly need to be somewhere else in the house. Ellen's frustration mounted to dizzying heights. But she decided she could be just as stubborn as her boss. Ever since that bizarre episode Sunday night, Wendy had been growing increasingly distant and moody and difficult, and Ellen was not going to put up with it any longer.

She was here, early in the day, to get some answers.

The faint beat of music tickled her ears as soon as she opened her car door. Her muzzle set in a determined expression, the slender mink marched up to the door. She was about to ring the bell, but noticed the door was several centimeters ajar. She pushed it open and walked in.

Immediately the pounding music coming to her from down the South Hall grew louder. Curious, she followed it all the way to the kitchen. When she rounded the corner to the south door, she stopped, staring, her mouth agape.

The windows literally vibrated in their frames from the sonic force radiating from the two large floor-mounted speakers on either side of the kitchen. Wendy had rolled the central island well out of the way, and stood in the middle of the kitchen, her back to Ellen, juggling. Ellen dimly remembered that her employer had mentioned once or twice, off-pawedly, that she could do it, as if it were something she had just sort of dabbled with in the distant past. But this . . . _this_ was juggling.

It was well that the downstairs was blessed with four-and-a-half-meter ceilings. Wendy used all of the vertical space. A veritable tempest of knives flashed and fell in the air around the petite vixen, whose arms moved in a continuous blur, her paws snatching and flinging the knives at a rate of several per second. The music swelled, reached a roaring climax, and ended, whereupon Wendy sent the knives thudding in rapid succession into several targets lined up along the south wall of the kitchen over the sinks. Ellen's ears rang in the silence that followed the cessation of the crashing chords.

Walking over to the targets, Wendy examined the placement of each knife, pulling them out one by one. Ellen noted dumbly that they were fairly small and double-edged, and seemed to have sunk at least three centimeters into the targets. With few exceptions, each knife had scored on the tiny 'x' in the center.

"Hmmmmm. Not too shabby. Ten outta fourteen on the mark, the rest within two centimeters." She had retrieved eight of her weapons when she stiffened slightly. Her head swiveled around and zeroed in on Ellen.

". . . . . uhh . . . Wendy, I . . . "

"You saw." It was not a question.

". . . . . . . Yyyeah. I saw something, although I'm not too sure I believe it. I think you just broke the world record for simultaneous juggling of similar objects."

Wendy looked at her steadily for several seconds, then shook her head slightly, said, "Damn," very softly, and completed the task of gathering the knives.

Ellen walked on into the kitchen and stood next to Wendy. The vixen didn't say any more and busied herself arranging six of the knives in a close-fitting holster-like thing under her blouse.

"Wendy?"

She looked up and stared at Ellen resignedly.

"Wendy . . . I'm your friend. At least I'd like to think so. _**I**_ think we're friends. Pretty damn good ones, if Sunday night was any indication."

Wendy's muzzle fur fluffed in a blush.

"You're obviously stressing over something, and I don't think it's only what we … what happened Sunday. So if there's something you'd like to get off your chest," she said quietly as she reached out and softly stroked the vixen's arm, "well . . . I've got really superb hearing."

Wendy chuckled. "I suppose it was silly of me to think no one would ever find out."

"Eh … I wouldn't go so far as that. I haven't found out _anything_ yet. Except that I want to be careful not to upset you if there are knives handy."

She was rewarded with a full, deep laugh. Ellen took Wendy's paw and led her over to the table, pulled out a chair, and pointed at it. The vixen took a seat, Ellen pulled out a chair and swiveled it around so the back faced Wendy, and straddled it.

Ellen began. "Y'know, I could tell you had an awful lot on your mind when you showed up two weeks ago. At this point, I'm not gonna ask you to spill everything, but if you want my honest opinion …"

"And it looks like I'm going to get it whether I will or no."

". . . ahem . . . In my humble opinion, you need to talk to somebody before you absolutely burst; talk to somefur who loves you and will really listen and won't be in a hurry to pass judgment. And I'm here. So. What's up, doc?"

"Hmh." Wendy drew a deep breath. "Ellen …"

"I'm all ears."

"You're a better friend than I deserve."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"No, really. I … I need to apologize. For Sunday night."

"Apologize? Why? Was that something you did on purpose?"

"No! No, it surprised me as much as it did you!" She dropped her head. "But maybe it shouldn't have."

"And I say again: Why?"

"Because … because …" She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing a drop or two out of each one, then looked intently into Ellen's face. "I don't want to pile on a burden you don't need to bear."

"Pile it on, Babe. You need to share the load."

"Do I? If it's my own fault, shouldn't I carry it by myself?"

"Will you please _stop_ being so cryptic and just _spill_ already?"

Wendy drew a long, stuttering breath, swallowed hard, and gave Ellen a watery smile. "I really _don't_ deserve a good friend like you, you know."

"Put a _sock_ in the self-loathing and Tell Me What Is Going On!"

"Okay!" She laughed quietly. "Okay. You win."

"Perhaps. Now talk."

"Um … damn, where to start?"

"How about at the beginning?"

"Smartass. Okay … you remember how I said Karl took us to Canada?"

"Yes. What happened there?"

"Uh … my, um, ex-husband, I think I mentioned him …"

"Arthur, right?"

"Yes. Um … he went nuts."

"Yeah, and he beat you up and you lost the baby you were carrying."

"Yeah. But that was a long time ago. Uh, since then he … got worse. And he got fixated on me somehow and, uh … he got mixed up with … um …" She wrinkled her nose and sighed. "You're going to think this is crazy."

"Doesn't matter what I think. Just lay it out."

"He started, uh, messing around with … magic."

"… Magic."

"Yeah."

"Like 'hocus-pocus-saw-the-lady-in-half' magic?"

"No. Like 'summon-a-demon-and-let-it-possess-you' magic."

"No shit?"

"No shit. How he went about it I don't know, but according to Karl he was the one sending me those horrible nightmares I used to have."

"Whoa-whoa-whoa! How would Karl know?"

"Uh … damn, this is getting complicated. Okay, you remember about when those wing-nuts came over to burn a cross on my lawn?"

"Sure." Ellen looked very confused. "What in the world does that have to do with …"

"I said it was complicated. See, there's this couple that lives in Middlebury, Brightlimb and Faye Stephens, and they're psychic. Well, she is; I don't know about him. And her father is some kind of real-life wizard dude, and he was upset because the nightmares were leaking over into Faye's visions and keeping her from sleeping, and he made some kind of 'ward' thing and they buried it at the foundation and it kept the demonic-whatever-it-was from sending me the nightmares."

Ellen held up a paw. "Stop. Please." She stared at Wendy, one eyebrow threatening to disappear into her headfur. "I can tell you're serious about this."

"Just as serious as I was about talking with that feral fox. You didn't believe me then, either."

"Okay. Your point. So what you're saying is that there really is magic, and Arthur got mixed up in it."

"Exactly."

"What does that have to do with Sunday night?"

"Hah! Yeah. You may recall I said this was complicated."

"Fair enough. Pray do continue."

"So while Karl and I were in Alberta, Arthur tracked me down."

"Damn! How?"

"Magic, I would assume. All I know is, I was painting one day and he snuck up behind me and knocked me on the head. The next thing I knew, he had me tied down on a rock and proceeded to cut my guts out."

**_"Holy shit!"_**

"Or words to that effect. Karl intervened and killed Arthur and rescued me. Sewed me back up. But I'd lost a lot of blood. So he gave me a transfusion and …"

"Stop! Stop! Hang on. Damn, girl, one bloody thing at a time! Why was Karl … Wait." She put up a paw again. "Karl _killed_ Arthur?"

"He did, and good riddance. Lunatic bastard. I'd kill him myself if he weren't already dead."

"Just … hang on. I'm still trying to get my brain around Karl _killing_ someone."

Wendy laughed heartily at that. "Oh, girl, what you don't know about Karl!"

Ellen's answering look was quite ominous. "All right. I'll bite. What _don't_ I know about Karl?"

"Before landing in Vermont, our Mr. Luscus was a government operative. Anti-terrorism and whatnot. Killing bad guys was what he did, and he was exceedingly good at it."

Ellen's muzzle hung open. "And I wanted to _date_ that guy? And you _married_ him?"

"He's changed a lot since then."

"But … but he killed your ex!"

"Yeah. Don't think that just because he doesn't do it for a living anymore that means he's lost the skills. He merely applies them a lot more selectively."

"You sound like you're proud of him!" Ellen accused.

"I am. Proud of who he's become."

The mink stuck her tongue into a corner of her mouth, gave her head a shake, and said, "Fine. Whatever. Carry on. He transfused you." She snapped her fingers. "That's the other thing! Why was _he_ doing the transfusing? Why didn't he take you to a doctor?"

"We were at least two hard days of travel from the nearest town that could deserve the name. I would have died. I almost did anyway."

"Whoosh. Okay. Go on."

"Well then. Ah … here's where it gets kinda strange."

Ellen leaned back and hooted.

"Yeah, I know, but it's the truth. After the transfusion … uhhhhmm … one more thing you need to know about Karl."

"Oddly enough, that doesn't come as a shock."

"His, ah, team that he was on … they were all, uh, what you might call special. They'd been, um, improved, I guess you could say."

"… Improved?"

"Mmmyyeah."

"How?"

"They were stronger, and faster, and they all healed about a thousand times more quickly than a normal fur."

Ellen blinked, then blinked again, very deliberately. "You're messin' with me."

"No, I'm not. And I'll prove it in a bit. Work with me for now."

A shrug was her only answer.

"Okay, so when Karl gave me his blood, it also gave me some of his, ah, improvements. So I got faster …"

"And that's how you were able to juggle like that?"

"Yep."

"Damn."

"I know it's a lot to take in."

"Maybe just a tad."

"Hey, you asked for it."

"What about that proof you were talking about?"

"Ah. Yeah, see, I also got that regeneration thing." She extracted one of her throwing knives, held out her paw so Ellen could see the palm, and drew the knife across it. Blood welled up for maybe two seconds, then stopped. "Toss me one of those tissues?"

Ellen passed her box. Wendy pulled one out and used it to wipe off the blood. "Take a look."

"I don't see anything."

"That's the point. It's already healed."

The mink looked up and held her gaze. "There's not even a scar."

"I know." She hiked up her shirt and pulled the fur apart. "There's just the tiniest bit of scarring left here from when Arthur cut me open. At the rate it's fading, it'll be gone in another two or three months."

Ellen leaned back in her chair, gazing off past Wendy, and then abruptly got up and went over to the refrigerator. She rummaged around and came up with a can of Echinacea-reinforced green tea. Popping the top, she took a long swallow on her way back to the table. She stood behind her chair and eyed Wendy while knocking back the rest of the can. Then she set it on the table, leaned forward, resting her paws on the back of the chair, and asked, "So all this is on the level. What does it have to do with Sunday?"

"Ah. Yes. That's another, um, perk. Karl calls them that. Little 'extras' that show up after the main … characteristics are in place."

"Perk?"

"… mmyeah."

"So, besides the speed, and the healing thing, you got a perk that makes minks fall in love with you?"

"No! No, that's not it at all. We were … that is, you had, ah, feelings for me before all this happened."

Ellen conceded the point. "So what is it?"

For an answer, Wendy reached over and took her paw, stilled herself, and concentrated.

_Anger . . . . . fear that she is being lied to . . . . . that cut sure as hell looked real . . . . . how has she not told me any of this until now? . . . . . how am I supposed to help her? . . . . . Good God, but this is crazy! . . . . ._

"Yes, Ellen, it is crazy. My whole life has gone crazy."

Ellen jerked her paw away. "What are you doing? How'd you do that?"

"That's the other perk." She concentrated, now that she had established something of a link with Ellen, on the other girl's emotions. "You're afraid I'm lying to you, that I have some other motive for doing all this."

"Like it would take a psychic to figure that out."

"Nevertheless, I can feel what you are feeling. It's not telepathy. I can't pick and choose individual thoughts. But I can read your emotional state to a nicety, and get broad ideas of what you are thinking on the surface. That ability, that 'perk' is what kicked in Sunday night, as far as I can tell. I felt what you were feeling, and I projected all of it back, which only served to reinforce the feelings you were experiencing." She smiled and closed her eyes. "It was … intense. You are a very passionate girl, Ellen."

"So you were in my _head?_"

"And you were in mine. It wasn't anything I could control. I'm still learning this stuff, and a lot of the time I don't even have words to describe what I'm experiencing. Calling my position unique wouldn't be stretching the point much."

"So … so what I felt … that was you? You were feeling that?"

"I was. It was almost like feeding on your emotions … or bathing in them. Drinking them, but only to give them back. And you were very willing to share."

"I didn't know what I was doing!"

"And I did?"

"I … but you … just hold it a freakin' minute! Have you been doing this to me all along?"

"Hah. No. By no means. Most of the time I keep a screen across my mind, a sort of wall for protection. If I didn't have that, I'd have gone totally off the edge by now. I don't _want_ to go bouncing around in other furs' heads."

"Oh. Okay, then, I guess … I guess that makes sense."

"If anything about this situation does. But do you see now? You see what I meant about this being my burden to bear?"

"Huh. Yeah, I suppose." She glanced over at Wendy. "How long?"

"How long have I been like this?"

"Yeah."

"Couple months."

"Oh. Not too long, then."

"Not long enough to get any good at it yet. And it keeps changing on me. Things add on or peter out." She shrugged. "Eh. Not so much that latter bit any more. I haven't really had an opportunity to see if I can still slip down into Karl's mind the way I could when this stuff first hit."

"Say what?"

"Oh, Ellen, it was …" She took the mink's paws in hers. "I asked him at the time. How did I get so lucky? Ellen, I felt his love. I experienced it, directly, let it run through my fingers and wind me up in its length like a warm blanket."

Suddenly Ellen could feel it, too. The certainty, the intensity, the depth, the absolute knowledge, all possibility of doubt utterly erased. Stunned, she dropped to her knees in front of Wendy, basking in the reflected glow of the memory of Karl's love.

Then it was gone. Wendy released Ellen's paws and slumped in her chair. "But now he isn't here. He's in a secret hospital somewhere, being treated for the after-effects of some really hideous torture, and his mind is messed up and he's in pain most of the time and he can't concentrate and they won't let me see him."

"Oh! Oh, Wendy, oh, God, no!" Still shaking off the remnants of the experience, she understood to a large degree the vixen's distress. "Wendy, you have to go see him! You have to go to him! God, how could I have … I mean, yeah, I love you, but …"

"Sweetie?" A tender paw brushed Ellen's cheek. "I know. And I know my problems aren't your problems. That's why I didn't want to rope you into this."

"Rope, hell! I wouldn't have missed it! Thank you so much! I just … you're so …" She swallowed and tried to regain some composure. "This only reinforces what I said before. I love you, I'm your friend, and friends share." She leaned forward and hugged Wendy. "And I'm _so glad_ I'm your friend."

Wiping at the tears of relief in her eyes, Wendy replied, "So am I, Sweetie. So am I."

. . .

. . .

. . .

**End of Chapter Three**


	13. Chapter 4 Hard Rain Part A

**_Chapter Four – Hard Rain – Part A_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**All people should try  
><strong>**to learn before they die  
><strong>**what they are running from,  
><strong>**and to, and why.**

**-_James Thurber_**

##

_** Thanksgiving Day 2017 – Ash Creek Inn – 6:20pm **_

What had been merely 'bracing' earlier in the day was beginning to feel more like something that could be described as winter. The forecast called for snow flurries beginning around midnight, with accumulations of upwards of ten centimeters by dawn and the snowfall continuing off and on all the next day. Wendy stood against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the library, staring across the South Hall and out into the gathering gloom, trying to come to terms with recent events so that her life might at least pretend to make a modicum of sense. _Everything's starting to take on that dark gray mantle again. It doesn't feel the same, though. It's not … not so __**hopeless**__ this time around. I'm not so totally alone, the way I was last year. I have someone to love me now. … Ha. Two, counting Ellen._ This whole situation made her head spin. Neither last night nor through this day had Ellen made any more overtures, any suggestions that they might possibly grow into more than just really good friends, but Wendy knew for a fact that idea was never far from the upper reaches of her mind. At the same time the mink was deeply conflicted herself, having experienced a soupcon of the devotion and adoration that Karl and Wendy felt for each other; envy did constant battle with awe in her spirit. She loved Wendy and in a sense wanted her for herself. On the other paw, she loved Wendy and wouldn't even _consider_ coming between her and her husband. It jerked Ellen's emotions into knots. Consequently it pretty much did the same for Wendy.

But they soldiered on. She knew that Ellen was honestly trying to do the right thing, even if at the moment she was a touch confused about the definition of 'right'. And Wendy truly enjoyed having the ebullient mink around. So they did everything they could to make the occasionally awkward situation work.

Being busy helped, and the regular stream of customers, old and new, saw to it that _staying_ busy wouldn't be a problem. Speaking of which …

The tall, heavy door swung open soundlessly, admitting Ellen, who was burdened with two steaming mugs. "Hey, Boss Lady. Thought you could use a little warm on the inside."

Her gaze leaving the windows with no perceptible regret, she gratefully accepted the mug, taking a long sniff of the contents. "Oh, Ellen. Cocoa! How'd you guess?"

"You said, 'Hey, Ellen, it's good hot chocolate weather. Howsabout whipping up some?' Since I'm known to have somewhat more on the ball than your average potted plant, I got the hint."

Wendy leaned against the arm of the divan, took a careful sip, sighed in pleasure, and said, "You're so perceptive. Almost clairvoyant."

"Hah. That'd be your department, I think." She jerked her head toward the door. "Mom's got Amelie, Quinn and Tom set up in the parlor with some of your mulled cider and one of those bottles of uberScotch, the Stephenses just pulled up out front, and Siobhan and her crowd will be here in ten or fifteen; they're bringing Cinnamon and Emily with 'em. I've got the table set and the sideboard ready. The team needs you now, Coach. Gotta give 'em the ol' pep talk."

"Win one for the Gipper, huh?" She levered herself up and headed for the door. "Once more into the breach."

"Have I told you lately how much I appreciate what you're doing?"

"Only every other time you open your mouth. And I'll tell you again, it's the absolute _least_ I could do for all the wonderful folks that have helped me since I got here." She sighed. "I'm just sorry Alan and Martin couldn't make it."

"Heh. Yeah. Woulda been interesting to see how the preacher got along with the Wiccans."

"In the first place they aren't precisely Wiccan. In the second, they _already_ know each other and they get along just fine, thanks." Biting her lip in thought, she continued, "What I wonder is how they'll get on with the O'Muscas. It never crossed my mind that it might be an issue until earlier today. Kinda stupid of me."

Ellen thought that over for a moment. "You said they were pretty laid-back, didn't you?"

"Faye and Brightlimb? Yeah. Very much so, unless she's going on about one of her visions or some such."

"Shouldn't be a problem, then. Just a bunch of your friends getting together for a fantastic meal. They'll be too busy _'oohing and aahing' _over the food to get into any kind of argument."

"I hope you're right." She held the door for Ellen.

##

_** Saturday 25 November 2017 – Ash Creek Inn – 1:15pm **_

"That's right! You got it! Just like … oops."

Ellen cursed when she missed the fourth beanbag. Fortunately they were designed to stay where they dropped. Bending to pick it up, she said, "This is tougher than it looks."

"You'll be all over it in a few days. Just takes practice."

"I'll never be as fast as you."

"You don't have to be. You won't be juggling a dozen of anything."

"Ha-ha. _Four_ is looking pretty bleak at the moment."

"Practice, Dear Heart."

Ellen fought down a blush. She hadn't heard Wendy call her that in a long time. She was about to remark on it when the vixen's PA chimed.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Wendy Wylde?"

"Ah … yes." The voice tickled her memory. "Who is this?"

"Ted Border. We used to work together and …"

"Ted! Damn, son, it's good to hear your voice! Hold on a tick." A quick touch of a button activated the video. "Hey, big guy! You're lookin' fit. How have you been? Still with StrongArm?"

"Uh, yeah. Yes, I am." He squinted and asked, "Did you … cut your headfur?"

"Yeah. Easier to take care of short like this."

"Okay." He nodded. "It looks, ah … wow. It looks good on you." He swallowed and gave his head a tiny shake. "Yes, I've been well, thanks. Really good, in fact. That's, uh, sort of why I was calling."

"Fire away."

"Um … okay, I hope you don't mind, but when you quit, you left your forwarding information, so I had an address but when I called the number it was disconnected."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Stuff happens."

"That's okay. Obviously I did manage to dig up your current number."

"So what's on your mind?"

"Oh! Right. Well, scuttlebutt around the office was that you'd turned an old mansion into a B&B."

"True enough. Why, you thinking of coming for a visit?"

"Uh … kinda. See, uh, I was talking with Dexter, and … you remember Dexter Collie, don't you?"

"Sure. He's tight with Chris."

"Right. Okay, anyway, Chris, now that you mention him, was talking to Dexter about that place you got up there. He had some stills in his PA, and I happened to be there talking with Dexter about a project he's working on, and I'm doing the financial tracking for it, and … uh, that is, I thought it was a really gorgeous place. Your B&B."

"No argument here. You're welcome to come try her out."

"Ah … thanks. But I started talking with Dexter some more after Chris left, and he said you did gourmet cooking, too."

"That's right."

"You never said anything about that while you worked here."

"Enh. Not in your hearing, maybe. It's not like it was a deep, dark secret."

"So you still do that?"

"Sure. Got a café running out of the B&B four nights a week."

"Um … do you, ah, do, like, catering and stuff?"

"Sure do. What are you getting at?"

"Well, I know this is kinda short notice, but Cho Li and I were wondering …"

"Whoa! Hold on there! You and Cho Li still an item?"

"Yep. We're getting married next month."

"REALLY? Hot damn! Congratulations!"

"Thanks. I feel the same way. I asked her last March, but she said we'd have to ask her family about it because they're really traditional and stuff, so we had to go over and visit them and …"

"Visit them? In China?"

"Yep. That was pretty … tense. I was so scared I'd screw something up, but she helped me through it and they finally gave us their blessing. We're going to get married there, but then come back here to live."

"She still with StrongArm, too?"

"Heh. She's Manager of the IT department."

Wendy whistled.

"Yeah, I'm really proud of her. She's the smartest girl I've ever met."

"Not to mention deadly cute."

He grinned shyly. "Not to mention."

"Okay, so you're calling me because … you want to stay here on your honeymoon?"

"Exactly. Part of it, anyway. We'll be touring New England and the Maritime Provinces."

"Did you think I'd have a problem with that?"

"Well, no. I just wanted to, you know, reconnect and make sure everything was copacetic."

"As a friend of mine says, I'll be thrilled _just all t' pieces_ to have you two stay here."

"I'm glad. I want this to be a surprise for Cho Li. I've got a few, ah, things I'd like to do for her while we're there. Can I send you a list?"

"Absolutely. Just load it up to my PA. When will you be getting here?"

"We're flying over to Beijing a week from tomorrow, and we'll be back on Monday the tenth. If the plane connections all work, we should be there sometime late that night."

"Cool. I'll see if I can dig up a red carpet somewhere."

"Thanks so much, Wendy!"

"My pleasure. You got that list ready to go?"

"Sure do." And as soon as he sent it, they made their goodbyes and Wendy looked back over at Ellen. Not being terribly interested in the conversation, the mink had picked up the four beanbags again. Wendy nodded, pleased. "See, I _told_ you you could do it."

"This … is … tough."

"Concentration and practice." A tiny frown creased her brow. "Ellen? I'm gonna go call Rajid."

"Okay. I'll keep on with that practice and concentration stuff, then, okay?"

"Okay." Wendy trotted down two flights of stairs and over to her office. Since Ellen had walked in on her in the kitchen, she'd decided that the better part of valor dictated a more private venue for her sessions, so from then on she'd stuck with the big, mostly-empty room on the third floor. Once in her office she got herself a cup of Honduran coffee from the Bunn dispenser, took a seat, and hit a button on her PA.

Rajid was in Brooklyn when his unit buzzed with Wendy's signal. Wayne gave him a raised eyebrow and said, "That who I think it is?"

"Who else? As the swallows return to Capistrano, so I expect Mrs. Gulo to call about this time each day."

"You gonna answer it?"

He pulled a long breath and jerked the communicator out. "Good afternoon, Wendy."

"Good afternoon." She steeled herself and asked the question that was increasingly leaving the taste of ashes in her mouth, "Has there been any more progress?"

"Not at this time."

". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nothing?"

"Nothing."

A frustrated paw went to her forehead. "Mr. Rajid, at this point I don't really care to argue about whether or not he gets to see me, but I have to see him. I have to."

"Wendy, please understand …"

"No. I am past understanding. Way past. You have had him for seven weeks. I have not been able to see my husband for seven weeks. I have been waiting on some kind of good news – something, anything – for _seven weeks_. And you have been stonewalling me. For. Seven. Weeks. My patience and my charity are exhausted."

"Mrs. … um, Wendy, as you just stated, Karl has been in our care here for only seven weeks, and …"

" **_Only? _**"

"Yes. I know it must seem like a lifetime from your perspective, but from the standpoint of post-traumatic stress his treatment has hardly begun."

"Hardly _begun?_ How the hell … what do you mean, hardly begun? What's left to _do?_"

"Without putting too fine a point on it, everything. He is extremely unstable, he is in intense pain some of the time, and it … has affected his judgment."

Her eyes narrowed. "What does _that_ mean?"

"It is difficult to explain."

_Yeah, I'll just bet. Bastard._ "Why don't you try?"

"Very well. His hallucinations have not abated. When under the influence of one, his behavior can be, ah, quite unpredictable. He gets violent easily, and will lash out at anyone within reach. It can take quite a long time for him to reassert control over himself."

"You've said some of … well, I guess from time to time you've said _all_ of that before. That doesn't explain why I can't be allowed to see him."

"It would really be better for both of you to …"

"Has he healed? Physically?"

"Ah … well, as to that, yes, largely. His wounds have healed …" He didn't tell her about the problems they were still having with his teeth, or that Karl had grown impatient with the progress two of his fingers were making and had cut them off. The stubs were growing out nicely, and Dr. Topol surmised that their regeneration would be complete in another week, but in the mean time they itched unbearably. "… for the most part."

"Very well, then. If his appearance won't shock me into a faint, can you give me one decent reason why I can't see him? Believe me, I can handle the truth."

"The doctors do not feel that the time is right yet."

She raised her arm to smash the PA to the floor, but then slowly lowered it and cut the connection. "Damn Rajid. He's not telling me all of it; he's holding something back, I just know it." She was very much afraid that the obnubilated information was something that would tear her world apart, and her imagination supplied all sorts of harrowing possibilities: he wasn't really regenerating; he was blind; they had to amputate his limbs and they weren't growing back; he was a drooling imbecile with no mind left to speak of. _Knowing the truth, even if it's horrible, would be better than this._

The maggots of anxiety, uncertainty, and dread ate at her mind. Most of the time she simply couldn't bear to think of it, and so she didn't. But the fear couldn't be held at bay indefinitely. At various times, such as now, the weight of it would come to rest on her slender shoulders and bear down, crushing her spirit, crushing the life out of her.

She sat like that for several minutes, trying to breathe slowly and evenly, trying for control, and then she flipped the PA back on. Pulling up a map of Massachusetts, she zeroed in on the area code for Rajid's PA. No, wait; he may not work anywhere close to his home. Killing that application, she brought up another search mode and had it locate the headquarters for the ISB. That, unsurprisingly once she thought about it, was in Virginia, just outside the D.C. Beltway. She refined her search to 'northeast' and shortly had an address, which she copied into her GPS files. Then she noted the time. _Okay. The first guests ought to be arriving in an hour or so. Better check on their room, make sure everything is ship-shape._ And she trotted out the door to do just that.

##


	14. Chapter 4 Hard Rain Part B

**_Chapter Four – Hard Rain – Part B_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Monday 27 November 2017 – Boston – 11:00am **_

"Who is she again?"

"Says her name is Wendy Gulo." The shorter guard, a border collie, hung a thumb back in her direction. "Wants to talk with the boss."

The other guard, the Doberman at the desk, asked, "You didn't tell her where he is, did you?"

"No. What do you take me for?"

"Just checking. That's privileged information. We can't take what she says at face value without a background check."

"Look, just because I've only been on this detail for two days doesn't mean I'm an idiot."

The Doberman, ignoring his partner's protest, pulled up a database and typed in her name. "How d'ya spell 'Gulo'?"

He consulted his clipboard. "G-U-L-O."

"Okay, just like it sounds." He waited several seconds until the screen settled on a page; then his eyes widened. "Huh." He gave the collie the eye and asked, "She armed, that you could tell?"

"Nope. And her getup don't leave a lotta room for imagination, much less hidin' a piece."

"Okay, then. Smitty, how about showing our guest to Room Three?"

He cocked an eyebrow at that. "Ah-huh." He unstrapped his sidearm before escorting Wendy to the interrogation room.

#

_No video. No magazines. No radio reception at all._ She grumbled to herself while adjusting her earpieces. _ One stupid metal table and two stupid metal chairs. And they leave me here, cooling my heels for a bloody hour and a half. I bet Rajid's laughing his ass off. It's a damn good job I had a big lunch._ Seating herself again, she clicked the volume up a notch, leaned the chair back on two legs and propped her feet on the table. Just as she got comfortable, the door opened.

Capra stood there, staring, while she righted the chair, got to her feet, and stepped over to stand in front of him. He stuck his paw out. "Capra."

Her eyes lit up at that. "Capra?" She took his paw and pumped it warmly. "You're Karl's old teammate?"

He moved the stump of the cigar he was sucking on to a corner of his muzzle. "Yeah, dat's me."

"You saved our lives with that flare, you know."

"Eh. Dunno s'much about dat. I t'ink Gulo woulda pulled it out anyhow."

"Maybe so, but I'm pretty sure _I'd_ be dead."

"It uz all I could t'ink of ta do. Glad it woiked."

"So … can I see him?"

"Uhmm. I'm 'fraid Gulo ain't here."

"I know that. From what Rajid said, he's at some super-secret hospital somewhere to the north, but not too far."

"… Yeh."

"I want to go see him. I need to s-see my husband."

The look in her eyes, the catch in her voice gave Capra an urgent need to swallow the lump that developed in his throat. He took his cigar out and held it while saying, "Ya know, seein' ya on video ain't da same as seein' ya in poyson. Did he tell ya how much ya look like Phoebe?"

She nodded. "He said we talked alike and smelled the same, too."

"It's jus' damn spooky. An' 'specially since ya cut ya headfur, it's … really somet'in'."

"Look, I'm sure that's very interesting and all, but … please … may I please see my husband? Please?"

Capra was torn. Dr. Topol had, over the last few days, been getting more strident in his criticism of Rajid's methods where Wendy was concerned, and the shaggy agent thought he made a lot of sense. There might even be legal ramifications if she wanted to press the case. Besides that, there was the issue of her mental state. His personal preference, had he been in a similar situation, would be to have all the facts so he could set his mind at ease one way or another. He couldn't help but think that Wendy deserved the same.

"Uh … see, da t'ing is …" He got a sudden inspiration. "Yeah! Da t'ing is, we got video of 'im. I can let ya see dat."

"Video? Why can't I just have a look at _him?_"

"It's a damn sight easier ta get ta da video dan it is ta get ta where he is, dat's why."

"But …"

Capra held up a paw. "Tell ya what. Ya can go ahead an' give it a look. Den, aftah dat, if ya wanna put eyes on 'im poysonal-like, I'll see what I can arrange. How 'bout dat?"

Her lip received a few chews while she thought it over. "Okay. I guess that'll do. For now."

"Good. C'mon."

The first video was from the previous Tuesday, showing Karl doing some basic exercises. He was slowly curling a barbell that he could have twirled like a baton back in August. One of her fingers touched the monitor. "He's so … thin."

"Yeah. Da bastahds starved 'im. Ya knew dat, didncha?"

"… I did. That doesn't make it easier to look at." She peered closer. "What's wrong with his paw?"

"Uh … scumbags mashed 'is paws. Messed 'em up bad. His left paw healed up okay, but da right one wudden comin' along like he wanted, so a few days ago he cut off da two fingers dat wuz bodderin' 'im."

"_He_ cut them off?"

"Yeh. He's … real impatient dese days."

"Does that mean his control over pain has improved?"

"Depends on when ya ast 'im."

The rest of the clip went by in silence. Capra entered a few commands and hit the start button on the next one.

They were at it for nearly twenty minutes. Wendy saw him eating and sparring and resting and working at a computer terminal. "He looks … driven."

"Yeh. He goes at stuff hard."

"What's he doing with the computer? I'm kinda surprised you'd let him at one."

Capra explained that they had set him to the task of data filtering for the department, and that he was showing a knack for it. Also, it helped to keep his mind off … things.

Wendy gave him a narrow glare. "What sorts of things?"

He returned her gaze steadily, finally giving his heavy head a shake. "I'll prob'ly get written up fer dis." He punched in a series of numbers.

"Written up for what?"

The video came up. Karl was in a small apartment, sitting ramrod-straight on the edge of a couch. He opened his mouth to say something and Capra stopped the feed. "Wendy?"

"Yes? What?" Her eyes flicked between him and the screen. "What's going on?"

"I know ya been callin' Raj ever' day. I talked wit' Doc Top a few times about what he told ya."

"What about it?"

"He … heaarhhmm. He ain't been givin' ya da whole scoop."

"I knew it! I knew he was holding something back!" She pointed at the monitor. "What's he doing here?"

"Talkin' ta da shrink."

"A psychiatrist? Are things that bad?"

"Eh … Yeh. Dey are. He's fu- um, messed up real bad."

"Rajid said he was having hallucinations."

"Yeh. Sometimes. But dat ain't da big problem."

"… Then what is?"

"Ya know how he can remembuh stuff? Ever't'ing, all da time?"

"… Yes?"

"He, ah … when dey starved 'im, his body started … burnin' itself up. Ta keep 'im alive. Dat's why he's so shrunk."

"Yes? So I had thought. What does that have to do with his memory?"

"His system … ah, it ate some of 'is brain, too. We t'ink."

A chill shook her hard. "What do you mean?"

"His memory is messed up. He can't remembuh much of anyt'ing dis side o' seven mont's ago. Aroun' da foist of April."

"Can't … wait. Wait! He doesn't remember … last summer?"

"Nope."

"Not any of it?"

"Nothin'. Squat. Or most o' da spring. An' even from before dat, it ain't too good. He says da last t'ing he remembuhs doin' for sure is givin' _you_ a necklace, an' dat it made ya sad."

The air in the room had become stifling, and her breathing labored. She gulped a few quick breaths and turned a shimmering gaze on the canine, her lip quivering. "Are you saying that he doesn't … remember … being married?"

He nodded, and restarted the recording.

_Dr. Rispin: …because, Karl, we do need to talk about that decision you made yesterday._

_**Karl: I know what you are referring to. There is nothing to discuss.**_

_Dr. Rispin: I think, if you consider everyone involved, that you might see it differently._

_**Karl: I don't see how.**_

_Dr. Rispin: Because your decision affects others besides you._

_**Karl: Exactly my point. I can't allow her to come to harm.**_

_Dr. Rispin: What makes you think she would be in danger?_

_**Karl: History. I have a lot of it. She must stay away from me, completely and at all times. Ideally, she will forget that I exist.**_

_Dr. Rispin: But the groups you're so worried about are dead, in jail, or being taken into custody as we speak._

_**Karl: Some of them. Not all of them. And there are others; many, many more where they came from. I can spend the rest of her life protecting her from the ghosts of my past, or I can cut her loose and make a clean break, and very likely save her life. Being in my presence is bad enough. Being marked as one of my friends serves only to paint a target on her back. I won't have her death on my conscience.**_

_Dr. Rispin: But, Karl, even given that you are overstating the case enormously, there is still your wife's input to …_

_**Karl: Why do you keep doing that?**_

_Dr. Rispin: She is your wife, Karl. You are married._

_**Karl: I have asked you before not to coddle me. Pleasant fantasies are not only unnecessary, they can be dangerous. I know that from experience. And please do not assume that just because I am temporarily … mentally unsound that I am a fool as well. She would never marry me. She considers my faith to be a bad joke, and she knows I would never consent to a marriage with a non-Christian. Additionally, to be blunt, I wrecked her life. It is my fault that her home was destroyed, and her livelihood ruined. She said as much to my face. If she has any feelings for me at all, I can assure you they won't be pleasant ones.**_

_Dr. Rispin: Why don't you ask her?_

_**Karl: Doctor … she and I had numerous discussions on the topic, among many others. We do not see things from the same point of view. I am sorry, truly, that things didn't work out differently. I would have liked getting to know her. But this is the best course of action. It is for her own good.**_

_Dr. Rispin: Karl, if you would just think this through …_

_**Karl: But I already have. Exhaustively. More so than you, obviously.**_

_Dr. Rispin: But you don't know how she feels about – eep!_

_On the screen, Karl picked up the diminutive doctor, took her to the door, and deposited her out in the hall. He locked the door after closing it._

Capra stopped the feed and looked over at the vixen.

Her cheek fur had matted with twin ribbons of tears. "He do-do-doesn't re-remember?" She wiped at her face with the back of one paw. "He r-really doesn't know that … that he's … he has a _wife?_"

"No. He don't."

"How is that po-possible?"

"Da doc don't know. He says mebbe dere was some damage ta da brain, some noives killed off, an' when dey grew back dat da connections … just wudden dere."

Weeping freely now, Wendy stared at the monitor, lifted a thin paw to caress his image. "I have to see him. I ha-have to see him in …" she swallowed hard, "in person. Maybe that would jog his memory."

"Dat wudden be a good idea."

She turned desperate eyes his way. "Why not?"

"Uh … hang on." He punched in several more commands and a new video started. Karl was in what appeared to be a small conference room. She noted that he still had all his fingers, and so this must be some days ago. The psychiatrist was going through what he could recall again, and he looked quite agitated.

_Dr. Rispin: So then after you discovered Wendy and removed her from Reyneau's hotel room, what happened?_

_**Karl: We have already been over this twice.**_

_Dr. Rispin: Yes. But I need for you to concentrate on the details. Give me as much detail as you can recall._

_**Karl: We went to a medical clinic, an offshoot of the local hospital system. They weren't busy so we got medical attention very quickly. I got an estimate of the charges and paid them in advance. That is much faster than using insurance, which I didn't have anyway, considering my status at the time. She needed some detox, and I stayed with her until the process was well under way. While the medicos were taking care of that, I scanned Reyneau's computer, discovering a great deal of unpleasant information concerning his activities, and then went back to the room and waited for him. I had placed a long-range tracker on his car the night before so I could keep tabs on him.**_

_Dr. Rispin: And?_

_**Karl: And when he came back he wasn't alone. He had a TFN operative with him.**_

_Dr. Rispin: And what did you do then?_

_**Karl: I incapacitated them. Then I broke every long bone in Reyneau's body, removed his ears and tail, snapped his Achilles tendons loose from his heels, stuffed him into a storage container, and dumped him at a hospital.**_

_Dr. Rispin: [flinching a bit at the graphic description] What about the Trenchant Fur operative? What happened to him?_

_**Karl: [drawing a finger across his throat.] After I drained him of information.**_

_Dr. Rispin: Was it really necessary to kill him?_

_**Karl: [ with an unsettled expression, as if something is pricking the edge of his memory ] Yyyyes. The Cartel and I offer one another no quarter. But haven't I told you this before?**_

_Dr. Rispin: I don't believe so. Why would you think that? Did you have this conversation with someone else?_

_**Karl: [ shrugging ] It doesn't matter. He needed killing.**_

_Dr. Rispin: Really? And you simply dismiss the consequences? The legal ramifications? Do you entertain the notion that no one will miss him, that the body will never be found? They always surface eventually, you know._

_**Karl: There is no body to find.**_

_Dr. Rispin: … What?_

_**Karl: I know of an excellent method for disposing of a corpse that leaves no trace. No bones, no fur, no DNA.**_

_Dr. Rispin: I … see. Very well. Then what?_

_**Karl: I went back to the clinic and stayed with Wendy until she was discharged.**_

_Dr. Rispin: [activates a video of Wendy dancing in falling leaves, projected from overhead onto a wall ] What, then, of Wendy? How do you think she would react to your …_

_**Karl: [stares at the monitor and then, in a singsong manner, recites ] What of Wendy, what of Wendy, what of Wendy, what of Wendy …**_

_Dr. Rispin: … Mr. Gulo?_

_**Karl: What of Wendy, what of Wendy, what of Wendy, what of Wendy …**_

_Dr. Rispin: Mr. Gulo! Karl!_

_**Karl: … Huh?**_

_Dr. Rispin: Do you know what you're saying?_

_**Karl: [ only gazes at the dancing image ]**_

_Dr. Rispin: You were repeating Wendy's name over and over._

_**Karl: I … I don't know … how to … [grabs head and moans] Phoebe! Get out!**_

_Dr. Rispin: Mr. Gulo? What is Phoebe telling you?_

_**Karl: [stands and stares around wildly] She's coming! She's almost here! We have to get away!**_

_Dr. Rispin: Mr. Gulo, you are safe, we are alone here and …_

_**Karl: Get out! Get out! [lifts the conference table and flings it against the wall while Dr. Rispin ducks and cowers on the floor] Get out! Get out! Get …**_

Capra stopped the feed and turned to his guest. "Dey came in about den an' give him anuddeh injection ta calm 'im down."

"But … but … why does … I don't _get_ it!"

"Dat's what happens ever' time he sees ya face."

"… I don't understand. What happened?"

"He went batshit. Dat's whut I'm tryin' ta tell ya. If he sees a picture or a video wit' you in it, he loses it. Dere's some connection dat flips 'im out ever' time."

Wendy's breathing sped up, shortly becoming a series of pants. Then she screamed, and stood, and grabbed the monitor, and pulled up with everything she had, shaking it violently back and forth. A bolt gave, yanking free of the pressed-wood table. When the other came loose, she raised the monitor over her head, and smashed it to the floor. Almost immediately she followed it down, crumpling into a heap and sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

Capra, stunned at her display, hadn't noticed his cigar fall into his lap. He stood and went to her, helped her to stand, helped her out the door, and supported her down to the nearest ladies' room.

##


	15. Chapter 4 Hard Rain Part C

**_Chapter Four – Hard Rain – Part C_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Thursday 30 November 2017 – New Haven Junction, Vermont – 9:30am **_

A thick, white blanket covered the town, and more so the surrounding landscape. What had started Thanksgiving night had become a recurring theme the week following, to the point where some of the drifts were over a meter deep. It was falling even now, fine, light flakes that stayed where they landed, building to ridiculous heights on power lines and branches until a breeze or a vibration loosened them. The awning over the entrance to Quinn's store was no exception, and several unwary customers had jarred small avalanches of the powdery stuff down on themselves upon leaving.

The old raccoon was sticking close to his stove this day, the crackling of the fire within striking counterpoint to the mostly-one-sided conversation he was having with Ellen.

"… just so _worried_ about her and she won't come _out_ and I can hear her crying all hours of the day and night and I got a look at her yesterday and she's just skin and bone, Quinn, skin and _bone!_"

"And ya don't know wheah she went off to?"

"No! She just left the one short note about Monday's guests and I didn't see her at all that _whole day_, and I looked around for her but I couldn't find her when I got there Tuesday afternoon so I called her PA but she didn't answer, but then …"

"How …"

"… the _next_ time I called her I was up on the second floor and I heard it go off _in her room_ but when I tried it the door was _locked!_ I banged on it a few times …"

"Would …"

"… and then I heard her crying and I talked to her through the door and _tried_ to get her to come out but she told me to _leave her alone_ and wouldn't stop _crying_, Quinn! What do I _do?_"

"Wahl, to staht with ya can slow doon."

"I'm sorry, Quinn, I'm just so worried about her and she …"

"Shush!"

Ellen clammed up.

"Now, breathe. Slow an' easy."

She got herself under control shortly and then reiterated, "Okay, but what do I do?"

"First off, how did ya git a look at her iffen she wouldn't open tha door?"

"She did come out, for just a minute. I was in the kitchen but I heard her and ran over to the Main Hall, but she'd already been to her office and was going back upstairs, carrying something. She looked just _awful!_ I called to her, and she looked at me, but then she started crying again and ran the rest of the way to her room."

"Don't sound good." The ancient fur shook his head. "Not good atall. I'd say som'at has hurt her, and pretty bad." He nodded to himself. "And ya've no idee what this could be aboot? Anythin' she might've mentioned in tha last couple o' weeks?"

"Well …" She sniffed and drew a paw across her face. "I _know_ there was some sort of problem with her husband, that he got hurt really bad and was in the hospital, but she's known that for a while! Since before she got back! And I know she was worried about him, but … it didn't make her cry all the time."

"Ayah, she tole me aboot thet tha first time she got back, in Septembah."

"I asked her about it, you know, if there was some problem with Karl, and she only cried at me. But she cries no matter _what_ I ask!"

"I 'magine she'll git it oot of her system sooner 'r later." He rocked thoughtfully a few times. "And she'll talk t' ya then. In tha mean time, though, I b'lieve ya ought ta whip up a treat ya know she likes, and sit ye doon aside her door, let 'er know you're there and willin' ta listen if she wants ta talk. Don't ask nothin', just wait."

"You … you really think that'll work?"

"I'd say it'll work a sight better'n what ya _been_ doin'."

That pulled a tiny laugh out of her. "Yeah, I guess so." She stood and picked up her coat. "Thanks, Quinn."

##

_** Ash Creek Inn – 2:10pm **_

_Quinn, had I known you'd have such good advice, I would have talked to you sooner._

Her back against the railing, and Wendy's head in her lap, Ellen sat cross-legged on the floor just outside the vixen's room. She had coaxed a good portion of baked fish with dill sauce into her friend, and once Wendy got started and realized just how hungry she really was, she ate everything Ellen had with her. Now, with a slightly clearer head and someone to listen, she was spilling her guts all over the mink.

"Maybe," offered Ellen, "he's faking it? To protect you?"

"Bullshit. He doesn't love me anymore. He barely even remembers me, and that's just because I made a bad impression on him when we first met."

"Maybe the doc's right and it's only temporary."

"Hah. No. I think Capra's explanation was closer to the truth. He doesn't remember falling in love. He doesn't remember our Pawfasting or the love-making or how he trained me to fight or Arthur attacking me or my Augmentation." She drew a shaky breath and wrapped her arms more tightly around Ellen's leg. "I've never heard of any sort of ordinary amnesia being that pervasive. Ellen, he looked like a different person! I hardly recognized his voice! He was so … _hard_. Like ice. Like a honed edge. So sure of his decision." A few more quiet sobs found their way out and she didn't say anything for over a minute. Ellen held her and softly stroked her headfur, respecting her grief, some of which was leaking past the mental shield. Wendy's voice was very low, almost a whisper, distant and vague. "He doesn't remember anything important. Nothing of his capture and torture, either, but that's probably a blessing. No, Capra's idea about the brain being partially absorbed and then … growing back …" She huddled close against the mink. "Yeah. I'd say that's what happened." Shifting her weight, she turned on her back so she could see her friend's face. "It's all gone. I've been … erased. Expunged." A long sigh escaped. "Obliterated. Unmade. I'm not even a shadow at the corner of his vision now."

Ellen's heart ached for her. She searched her mental stores for some bit of wisdom to help the vixen, but came up short. Instead she fought back her own tears and simply continued to hold her, telling herself it was what Wendy needed … because it was _damn_ sure what _she_ needed.

"That's what I feel like, Ellen. Empty. No, not even that. Empty would imply some sort of vessel that needed filling, and I don't even have a shell." She nodded absently. "That's it. You know? I've been wondering. How do I feel about all this? For a few days now I haven't really been able to step back and look at it long enough to make up my mind. But that's it. That's the feeling. I feel like a nonentity. A nothing, a void, a blank spot on the map. Not even a ghost. Ghosts can maybe haunt somewhere, but I've been dismissed. He doesn't want to have anything to do with me, ever again. I'm gone. Vanished. I don't exist as far as he's concerned. He's made up his mind. What's left of it, anyway."

In her heart, Ellen did battle with a vast and bristling monster made of remorse and shame and fear. She'd wanted Wendy for herself, but not like this! Could this situation in some way be her doing? Did one of her self-serving prayers fly back around and run smack into Karl? Objectively she knew that was poppycock, but the knowledge didn't help much.

Wendy raised a trembling paw and laid it against Ellen's cheek. "Thank you."

Ellen started, sparing her a guilty glance. "For what?"

"For listening. And you really don't have to feel like that, you know. None of this is in _any_ wise your fault."

Ellen bit her lip. "Damn it, how am I supposed to be any help if you're always picking up on the way I feel?"

"I wouldn't worry about it, were I you. But it does help to talk it out, and all I've been doing for the last three days is soaking my pillow. Not that _that_ helps a whole lot. When your life's been dumped down the crapper – and I'd say this qualifies – there isn't much besides time that will really help. But you're a good friend, and it means a lot that you worried about me." She moved painfully into a sitting position. "Speaking of which, is there any more of that fish? I'm _beyond_ famished, and I think I have a lot of making up to do for my stomach."

"Yes, there is. You want me to bring it up?"

"No, I think I'd rather eat in the kitchen. Closer to the food that way, and from the pain signals I'm getting, it feels as if I'll be eating for a while yet."

"I can manage that. We can't have you starving. Can you walk okay?"

"I think so." She got unsteadily to her feet, leaning on Ellen. "WhooOOoOOoo. Got a little … _dizzy_ there."

"Ahhh … maybe I should carry you."

"Down the stairs? I don't think so."

"Well hang on to my shoulder, then, if you don't trust me not to fall."

"Right. That'll work."

##

_** Saturday 02 December 2017 – Ash Creek Inn – 10:00pm **_

Wendy's condition being what it was, Ellen had decided early in the week that she should move into one of the rooms until her friend was better. As the room beside Wendy's was fully furnished and not being used, it seemed the logical choice, and so Ellen brought a few sets of clothes over. And her makeup kit and brushes. And then some books. And when she'd gotten through those, her holo player. And by that time Wendy was talking to her – pretty much constantly – and it seemed reasonable to just stay on, rather than driving back to Vergennes in the wee hours each night. Besides all that, she was practically running the Inn solo, and having a wonderful time doing it, and was getting very, very comfortable with her position.

It felt good – felt _right_ – to be here for Wendy, to offer a sympathetic, non-judgmental ear, to take her part and cook her meals and encourage her to re-enter society to some degree. After all, her life as "Mrs. Karl" was over, right? The vixen had seen enough hurt in her life to spread misery over any _five_ furs Ellen could think of, and she deserved a break. She deserved … love.

These thoughts ran through her head while she bustled about, seeing to the needs of the three couples staying at the Inn this weekend. They were all young and very much in love: the Simeks were newlyweds, and spent most of their time in their room; June Verrid and Gary Hunter were celebrating their engagement and hardly seemed to notice anyone else; and Alexander Franklin had surprised his wife Alyssa with this trip for their fifth anniversary. Ellen did a creditable job as hostess, though, even given her highly-distracted condition. The pheromones wafting about the huge old house just about got thick enough to obscure vision at times, and the effect was not wasted on Ellen. Her poorly-disguised feelings for Wendy had her in quite a state.

That was as clear as a cubic meter of hard vacuum to the vixen, as she lounged against the elaborately carved railing at the rear of the second floor. After having heard Ellen's take on their guests, she'd decided to let her shield down a little and see how the land lay, psychically speaking, and she hadn't been disappointed. There was love and trust and faith and love and generosity and commitment and love and thrills and love and love. She fairly _soaked_ in the sweet emotions, letting them wash away her resentment and pain, if only for a time. The wounds were deep and ragged, and resisted her efforts at closing them, but this – this balm, this nectar – this could ease the ache better than anything she could do on her own.

But then she'd picked up on Ellen's feelings and had gradually tuned out the rest of them. Vying for space in her head were hope for the future, both immediate and otherwise; wonder and joy over her current situation here with Wendy; deep affection tinged with lust any time her thoughts strayed directly to her employer; and always, in the background, lurking just beyond sight like a stalking cougar, she wrestled with the twin fears that what she was doing was somehow wrong, and that she would inevitably be forced to leave.

Those last thoughts puzzled Wendy. Why would Ellen think she would have to go anywhere else? Certainly not on her account! She was thrilled to have her stay here. She could move in _permanently_ for all Wendy …

_Wait … what?_

That train of thought surprised her, shocked her, even. She stopped, and sat up straighter, concentrating on Ellen, trying to glean as much as she could of the lissome mink's state of mind. Ellen was sitting in the library at the moment. She had a fire going, and was sharing a nightcap with Alyssa Franklin. Alyssa was doing most of the talking. She loved her husband to distraction. They wanted to start a family. His … work, maybe? … circumstances had kept him traveling a lot, but … yes, a recent promotion or something allowed him to stay home most of the time now. They both loved kids and wanted at least two. Ellen followed the train of conversation with half her attention, the other half dancing around Wendy and the subject of children. She knew that Wendy had been pregnant three times and given birth once, that her daughter had died in infancy, that she'd suffered a prolapsed uterus and been forced to have a hysterectomy, and that it bothered her intensely if she thought about it. She felt sorry for Wendy and wanted to try to make it up to her. Maybe they could adopt?

Wendy nearly slammed the shield back down at that thought. Ellen was entertaining ideas of _adoption?_ That must mean she was thinking of the two of them, of their relationship, in the long term. How much of that was just fantasy? How much was plan? She listened closely, feeling guilty for eavesdropping but unable (unwilling?) to stop herself.

_Yes, we could adopt two cute little girls . . . . .  
>this is really good brandy . . . . .<br>Wendy would be a lovely mother . . . . .  
>I love this fire, the heat is really nice . . . . .<br>we have all the room we'd ever need in this house . . . . .  
>I can learn so much from her . . . . .<br>Alyssa has a pretty voice . . . . .  
>Wendy won't want to do it . . . . .<br>she hurts so much . . . . .  
>feel so bad for her, want to help, want to love her the way she is meant to be loved,<br>want to make up for my mistakes . . . . .  
>my mistakes . . . . .<br>wonder if she's asleep now . . . . ._

Mr. Franklin stuck his head in the library door. "Ah, there you are!" He looked at Ellen and grinned. "Mind if I kidnap my wife?"

"Sure. Knock y'self out."

Alyssa chimed in with, "I have a better idea. Why don't you come over here and help me enjoy some truly amazing brandy?" She patted the divan beside her.

"Works for me."

Ellen's thoughts tangled up then and Wendy withdrew her scrutiny. _This is dangerous. I can see myself getting addicted to this snooping stuff without too much trouble._ She rose and padded over to her room. It was getting on towards late, she'd been up since dawn, and things always looked better when viewed through a sufficient quantity of rest. She yawned, proving her point to herself, and headed to the Bath. _I think a nice, long shower would be just what the doctor ordered._ And it was.

#

_** deep night **_

And so she dreamed.

_There was a long field, tiny flowers of red and yellow, a smoky blue mountain off to the left, and the meadow was steep; if she didn't watch her footing, she'd be in for a long tumble; the picnic was supposed to be around here somewhere, but she couldn't find fur nor fang of anyone; but someone called to her …_

… _Wendy …_

_She knew that voice. She loved that voice._

… _Wendy …_

_Whoever it was had to be close …_

"Wendy?"

She grew aware of her surroundings. Someone stood at her door, which was slightly ajar.

"Wendy, are you awake?"

"I am now."

Ellen pushed the door open and padded over to the bed. The light spilling in from the hall made a silhouette of her curves through the filmy negligee she had on. "I didn't know if you'd be sleeping with your knives, and I didn't want to take a chance on getting skewered." She sat on the edge next to Wendy.

"Smart girl." She looked over at the clock and yawned. "So, what's on your mind that couldn't wait five more hours for dawn?"

"I …" Ellen coughed softly and repositioned herself, pulling her legs up onto the bed. "I, uh, couldn't sleep."

"So I noticed." Indeed, the mink's emotions were a veritable cyclone, even through the shield.

"I, uh … that is, I was wondering … would you … um …"

"Spit it out."

"Wendy, have you really given up on Karl? Really?"

"What do you mean, 'given up'? From where I stand, _he_ gave up on _me_."

"Yeah. He did, I guess. But … but, see, that doesn't mean … it's just, you know, there are a lot of furs who kind of, well, carry a torch for someone even when there's no … you know, zero chance of any kind of relationship, and I know how much you loved him. And I wondered."

"Wow. Okay. Um, Ellen … oh, how to say this." She sat up and pulled her knees to her chest. "We had … an _amazing_ relationship. Very deep, very passionate. I never even _imagined_ that I could be loved the way he loved me." She caught and held Ellen's gaze. "That isn't something you 'get over', nor is it something that I will ever forget."

"I know! Believe me. You let me feel some of it, a little tingle of what I'm sure was the mother of all lightning bolts. But that's not what I'm asking. I want to know if you think there's any chance that you and Karl might ever get back together. Do you think that's a possibility, and is it something you'd work toward?"

"Uh … huh. Well. You got me. I've been working off the assumption that my feelings in the matter, my input, my desires were moot. That is _certainly_ his position. So … have I 'given up'? In that sense, yes, I suppose so. But not because I want to. I've been left with no choice."

"So you'd say Karl is out of the picture for good?"

"As far as I know."

"Okay. In that case …" She took Wendy's paw. "I'd like to apply for the position of lover."

"… Beg pardon?"

"You can call it what you want. I can be a friend with benefits, or a significant other, or a booty call, or a roommate, or a live-in, or a girlfriend, or whatever. I don't care. What I _do_ care about is staying with you. I made a colossal mistake a year ago, and I know that now. I had a really good thing going with you, and I think we can make a go of it … if you want to." She blew a hard breath. "So there. I flipped my hole cards."

"You really feel that strongly about it?"

"I do. And, really, if you don't want to get all intimate right away – or ever – that's okay, too." She chuckled. "Eh. Sort of okay. I'll live. But honestly – and I am being as honest about this as anything else I've ever done – I think I belong with you. I love you. And if you love me, too, so much the better. But if not, I'll adjust. I just … just don't want to let things go … you know, _away_. I don't want to let this … this whatever we have together die. That would be the ultimate cruelty."

Wendy reached over and pulled the mink into a hug, which was enthusiastically returned. "Dear Heart, I would never want to be cruel to you!"

"Oh, Wendy, not _you!_" She pulled back far enough to see the vixen's face. "Never you! I meant … see, I want to … _protect_ you. From cruelty. From … from _everything!_"

"Sweetie, you _can't_ protect someone from everything. That's not …"

"I know! And you're right." Her muzzle firmed up. "That doesn't mean I can't give it one hell of a try."

Wendy laughed, and hugged her again. "Oh, you are a dear." She kissed the side of her muzzle. Then she kissed her over both eyes. "You know I missed you, don't you?"

Ellen nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The kisses left her light-headed.

"I am flattered and touched by your devotion, and I promise to do my best to be worthy of it."

"Really? Then … I can stay? For good?"

"For as long as you want to."

"Thank you! Thank you so …"

Wendy placed a finger over Ellen's lips. "Shh. I should be thanking you. You're the one who pulled me out of my bottomless funk and kept me from starving myself to death. If that doesn't demonstrate love, I don't know what would."

Ellen toyed with the idea of just coming right out and asking Wendy whether she loved her back, but decided that now wasn't really the time. "I guess it's okay to thank each other, huh?"

"It is at that."

"Okay. Well. Um, I, uh, guess I'll let you go back to sleep, then?"

"Sure. Eventually."

Ellen's eyes got very round. "What, uh, do you …"

"What was it you called it? Friend with benefits?"

A cautious nod was her answer.

"How 'beneficial' would you like this friendship to be?"

She drew a long breath, her heart beating hard. "Well, if I recall correctly, it _used_ to be one _hell_ of a beneficial friendship."

"That's what I thought. And since we're both awake anyway, we might as well get some benefit from the situation, yes?"

"Oh, that would be wonderful!"

"Heh. Has it been a while?"

"Uh … yeah. Months."

"Damn. You must be hurtin'."

"Well, it's been a long time for you, too, hasn't it?"

"That it has. But I've been, ah, distracted." She averted her eyes. "Losing one's husband and that portion of one's soul attached to him can get quite a grip on one's attention."

"Damn." She reached over and stroked Wendy's cheek.

The vixen sniffed, swallowed, and said, "I'd say we both deserve a little catching up."

"Are you … sure? You up for this?"

"I think so. I know a good way to find out."

"I'll close the door."

"Good idea." When Ellen got up, Wendy reached over and switched on the light.

The mink squinted back at her. "Kinda bright, isn't it?"

"Honey, as beautiful as you are, it would be very hard to have too much light. Besides, I have some … things to show you." She got up on her knees and whipped off her nightgown. "It so happens that my …" She caught her breath, squeezed her eyes shut briefly, and made herself continue, "… that Karl knew a great deal more about pleasuring a woman than I did." She braced herself, pushed the memories and the pain and the guilt off to a corner, and firmed up her conviction. _Come on, Wendy, you can get through this. Gotta do it sooner or later unless you want to wither away, and you aren't going to find a better partner than Ellen. Not any time soon._ _ But keep it light. Keep it light._ "And I'm in the mood to share."

"Sounds like my lucky day."

"Sweetie, you have no idea."

##


	16. Chapter 4 Hard Rain Part D

**_Chapter Four – Hard Rain – Part D_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Monday 04 December 2017 – Ash Creek Inn – 11:00am **_

A brilliant bowl of deepest cerulean greeted Wendy when she left the rear porch and looked up. Without any breeze to speak of, the sun was warm on her face, though she left small, white puffs in the air with each exhalation. Everything smelled clean and sharp; the recent snow still graced every surface that was even _close_ to horizontal, bringing out tiny details in exaggerated forms of absolute white. It was almost impossible not to have one's spirits raised, and she didn't really want to dwell on anything depressing today; she let herself be carried along on winter's high notes.

Ellen was napping. They'd awakened early and after a short snuggle decided that breakfast was a needful thing. A few crumpets with some really toothsome smoked Gouda cheese melted on top were just the thing. A pot of coffee and a few biscotti later, the mink had made some overtures, and Wendy let herself be led back upstairs.

She still wasn't a hundred percent sure how she felt about this arrangement. Ellen was a sweet kid, and a thoughtful and eager lover, but …

_But what? What's wrong with this picture?_

_Am I afraid to love her? How silly is that? We were an item a year ago and it worked out just fine._

_A year ago you weren't married._

_According to Karl I'm not married now!_

_But that's not the way it feels, is it?_

_What do you expect? It's only been a few days since I found out his brains went AWOL. What am I supposed to do? Grief has its stages, you know!_

_Grief didn't keep you from humping Ellen to within an inch of her life just now, though, did it?_

That was a good point, and one which she felt needed exploring. However, she was not in the mood for introspection at present. There were snowscapes to experience, icicles to crunch, and memories to ignore. She set off toward the creek.

Twenty minutes passed in pleasant exploration. She startled a deer, and its crashing departure set her heart hammering. After that she extended her empathic abilities ahead of her; she had no desire for a repeat performance. Ending up some way down Ash Creek, she stopped at an outcropping in a sunny spot and stamped her feet inside her mukluks to warm them. She wasn't sure whether she even _could_ catch a cold any more, but it never hurt to be careful. She gazed out over the Creek, admiring all the snowy hillocks hiding the rocks, grinning at the thin threads of water making their crooked ways between them. Then a flash of bright russet on the other side caught her eye.

_[ [ I greet you, daughter ] ]_

"Well damnation! Hello! Where'd you come from?"

_[ [ we are here always ] ]_

"Heh. Yeah, I guess you are. So. Do you have some news for me?"

_[ [ no news … only a question ] ]_

"And that is?"

_[ [ why is your mate not with you? ] ]_

She froze, just staring at him as the moments dragged past. He stared back, serene. "Why do you think that's any of your business?"

_[ [ you received a Word … that Word was that you were to go to your mate ] ]_

"So? I did."

_[ [ your mate is not here … we do not feel him ] ]_

"What's your point?"

_[ [ he should be with you … it is necessary that he be with you ] ]_

"The hell? You're telling _**me**_ this? Tell _him!_ He's the one who threw _me_ away!"

The fox sat, tall and still as they stared at one another.

_[ [ this is of no consequence ] ]_

"What?"

_[ [ your mate must be with you … that is the Way ] ]_

"Don't you **get** it? He doesn't **want** to be with me! He threw me away like an old piece of gum! You want the self-righteous son of a bitch? Go get him yourself!" She turned and ran, gaining speed until she cruised through the dormant wood at nearly fifty klicks, snow flying high in her wake. She lost one mukluk at the edge of the back yard, and the other on the porch, nearly wrenching the knob off the back door on her way inside. Breathing hard, she glanced around, hating everything she saw, and then she ran upstairs to her room. They had used Ellen's bed for their love-making, and she wanted privacy right now. Angrily she jerked off her clothes and stomped into the Bath, turning on the shower. She let the hot water run over her, then adjusted the nozzle, slid down the wall, huddled on the slick tile, and stared off at nothing until the water began to grow tepid half an hour later.

##

_** Monday 11 December 2017 – Ash Creek Inn – 2:00pm **_

A popular comedy song came hooting out of Mrs. Vison's PA, so she grinned and flipped it on. "Hey, Hon! What's up?"

"Mom, she bought a snowmobile."

"… Say what? A little context, please?"

"Wendy. She bought a snowmobile."

"Oh. Wendy." Ellen had told her mother about her relationship with the vixen the previous Wednesday; she took it well, though it had been quite a surprise. After the initial shock, and thinking it over for a bit, she'd shrugged, allowed as how if Ellen was happy she was happy, and wished them all the best. "Okay. There's a meter of snow on the ground. Snowmobile sounds like a good idea to me."

"This isn't a 'get-around-in-bad-weather' snowmobile, Mom. It's a racing model."

"Oh. Huh. Okay, so she likes to go fast."

"It's a racing model with an enclosed cockpit, gyroscopic stabilizers, a holo-player with a loge-type sound system, heated seats, and windows that automatically polarize to block glare. Mom, she plunked down over two hundred grand for that thing!"

Now that pulled her up short. "Are you sure?"

"She told me all about it! It's a custom job, shipped in from some fancy-schmancy outfit in Montana! Some rich guy in the oil trade ordered it built, but then never picked it up or something and they had it on their paws and offered it to her at a discount, if you can believe it."

"… Ellen? Two hundred thousand was the _discount_ price?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, my. Um. Well."

"Yes! At least."

"Does she … drive it?"

"She's on it now. Been on it all day. Well, since it got here this morning. She rode all over the property and up the road and back. If she didn't have that thing running a hundred and eighty klicks, I'll eat it, treads and all. And right now I don't even know where she is!"

"She'll _kill_ herself at that rate! She's no expert driver!"

"No, she's not. But she has, ah, _really_ good reflexes."

Indeed, Wendy's reflexes were all that kept her from disaster on several occasions in the last few hours. But she didn't think about it at the time, and she wasn't thinking about it now. She just wanted to see what the thrill felt like; wanted to see if it made her feel more alive. But it hadn't, and that was a disappointment. At present she was parked at the top of a hill some kilometers north of her property, sitting on the roof of her new toy and staring off toward the east at the sunlight reflecting from a million-billion icy facets.

_All right, girl, let's review this one more time._

_As of last night you've got the weekends booked through next March. Half a dozen of the reservations were paid in advance, as they said, just to be safe. They wanted to make absolutely sure that they'd get their room and not get bumped. Three of those weekends have nine of the rooms taken. That's almost eleven grand right there. Not that I need the money._

_The café is busy four nights a week. You're turning people away on a daily basis. You'll have to revise your reservation scheme, open up another dining room, and probably hire more help. Not that I mind, exactly, but having employees entails a major ton of red tape. That's one to study more closely._

_So, basically, word is getting around._ She nodded to herself. _And there was that write-up in the Sunday Supplement yesterday. Three people called just this morning after reading his glowing review of my seafood offerings. Business is brisk, steady, and looks to keep going that way._

_Cinnamon popped over for lunch twice last week. She considers me one of her inner circle of friends now, and made it pretty clear that I shouldn't be a stranger at her place. Mrs. Vison – excuse me, Beatrix – is getting chummy, too. I've gotten reciprocal invitations from every last fur who was here for Thanksgiving. Faye wants me to come with her to some kind of Winter Solstice celebration. _She lay back, cradling her head in her paws and staring upward at the blue expanse. _Face it, girl. You've been accepted as 'one of them' now. They consider you part of the community._

_You've got access to several of Karl's accounts, which amounts to an embarrassingly large amount of money. Even if that weren't the case, there's a good six or eight million in really old coins hidden in the Inn, and that doesn't touch the opals. Money is not a problem._

_You like what you do. You're good at it, other folks appreciate it, and it's rewarding and lucrative and, most of all, fun. _ "Or it could be," she mumbled.

_And you've got Ellen. Boy, do you ever. I don't think there's a single thing I could ask that she wouldn't do for me, and do it joyfully. She is as totally into me as … well, as anyone besides Karl has ever been. And she's gorgeous. And sweet. And talented. And a fast learner._ "Ha. Yeah, if all I was after was really, really good sex, there'd be no worries, would there?"

The wind was beginning to pick up, and since it could find every tiny crack or hole in her outerwear, she rolled off the roof and onto the treads, then hopped into the cab of her tricked-out ride. She only sat there for a moment before shrugging and starting the engine.

"So, in a nut shell, I'm in a position for which hundreds, possibly thousands of furs would cheerfully slit throats. And all I can think of is, 'Richard Cory must have felt this way'. And that really, truly sucks." Grimly, she gunned the magnificent machine, winding out the motor and shooting back toward the Inn at close to two hundred kilometers per hour, and not really giving two shits whether she made it or not.

##


	17. Chapter 5 Ruminations A

_**Chapter Five – Ruminations – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**Sometimes even to live is an act of courage. **

_**-Lucius Annaeus Seneca**_

##

_** Monday 11 December 2017 – near Boston – 3:40am **_

At first they had outfitted Karl's room with a reinforced cot, but it was too small. Then they tried a standard king-size bed, but he'd reduced it to matchwood one night in the throes of a hallucination, and it took him an hour to pick out all the splinters after the sedative wore off. His current sleeping platform was a truly custom creation: the six posts were thick-walled 80mm-square steel tubing, the top a 16mm-thick steel plate, the whole thing one solid weldment. He hadn't managed to so much as dent it yet, but so far he'd reduced two of the thick foam mattress toppers to confetti. It looked now as if he was trying to make it three.

_. . . . . . . the syrupy darkness swirled past his face, not quite touching but leaving in its wake an unnamable dread that sapped the strength from his limbs … he raised the long knife in one paw, and the gem at its hilt burst into coruscating blue flame that revealed a naked, ghostly vixen lying limply on his bed, a needle in one arm, but then she faded away and the dark thing was back and they fought until it shuddered and vanished, leaving a gaunt, hairy wolf in its place … the wolf's form flowed like wax under a torch, melting and changing color, becoming a computer console that twitched and bucked and began to spit out hundreds of voles, but then it folded and twisted and expanded into a robot that quickly assumed the form of a middle-aged weasel femme who menaced him with a polished paw that became a glowing iron rod and the wickedly sharp steel lance grew and grew until it pierced his chest . . . . . . ._

He sat up with a yell, clutching shredded pieces of his mattress in each paw. Three seconds later the light came on and his door opened to admit one of the nurses, a neural disrupter rod in one paw. She looked at him, then at his bed, and sighed. "Bad dream?"

It took him a bit to focus on her. His chest still heaved from the panic; he dropped the pieces of foam and felt along his sternum, but the dream had left no holes. "Yeah. Bad dream." Even as he spoke the traces and tendrils of his nightmare were pulling back into their holes, blocking his efforts to recall the scenes. "Sorry. Looks like I need a new mattress."

"Yeah. I'll have Jake pull one out of Stores."

"Don't wake him up. This'll do until the next shift comes on."

She offered him a small grin of thanks. "He'll appreciate that." Waiting until he lay back down, she finally gave a brief nod and pulled the door shut.

Karl closed his eyes but he knew he wouldn't get back to sleep tonight. This scenario happened often enough lately that it was becoming something of a routine. Two nights ago a dream had flung him against one of the walls. All that remained of that one was a vague image of Matthew Sinclair, of all people, a fur who hadn't crossed his mind in several years. He meant to talk to Dr. Rispin about that, but then forgot before their next appointment. It occurred to him now that Rajid might have better intel. Since he couldn't trust his memory to do it for him, and the idea had just popped up, he went to his desk and pulled out a notepad, jotting down what he wanted to ask the mongoose the next time they met.

Returning to his bed, he examined the condition of his mattress. Large chunks were missing from along both sides, and it was obviously separated down the middle for a third of its length. He considered simply removing it, but the bare steel frankly wasn't very comfortable, and his eyes strayed to the thick rug between the bed and the dresser. It was new and nicely plush, and he reflected that this wouldn't be the first time he'd slept on the floor.

But then an alternate plan crossed his mind. Unobtrusively in three locations in the room were placed small red buttons that Karl could use to summon an attendant. He pressed one and waited by the door until that same nurse answered. "Yes?"

"I'd like to go work out."

She looked pointedly at the clock on the wall.

"Yes, I know, but my chances for getting back to sleep range somewhere between negligible and non-existent. I might as well make use of the time."

"Very well. That's understandable."

"I'd also like something to eat."

She knew what _that_ meant. "Okay. I'll tell the café." The doors opened at her command and soon Karl was ensconced in one of the high-tension machines in the ISB's extremely well-appointed gym.

##

_** 10:15am **_

The first and less surprising thing about his meeting with Rajid was that it took place in his rooms. The second was that Rajid came alone and wasn't carrying one of Marla's disrupters. Karl gave him the once-over and asked, "Where's Capra?"

"I didn't think he needed to come along today."

"Oh? Aren't you worried I might go loopy and take you apart at the joints or some such nonsense?"

"No, Mr. Gulo, that I am not."

"Please, it's just 'Karl'."

"Very well, Karl. Are you curious as to why I am not worried?"

"Wouldn't be mortal if I weren't."

"I'll get to that in a bit. First, however, I would like to know why _you_ wanted a meeting."

"As you wish." He leaned back in his chair, a solid thing of steel and structural plastic. "I had a dream a couple nights ago and I was hoping you'd be able to shed some light on it."

"I will certainly try."

"Good. See, the thing is that currently I am having a lot of difficulty recalling anything about my dreams. I get tiny snatches, like bits of broken code, the corner of a photo, a blue-sky puzzle piece. It acts like a dreamscape version of short-term memory dysfunction."

"Yes. I keep abreast of Dr. Rispin's reports."

"Thought you might."

"But now you have had a dream you remember?"

"I wouldn't go _that_ far. No, all I can dredge up is a fairly clear picture of one fur."

"And I know this fur?"

"Oh, yeah, probably better than you'd like. It's Matt Sinclair."

Rajid started visibly. "Sinclair?"

"Heh. That hit a nerve, I take it?"

"This is definitely progress."

With the raising of an eyebrow, Karl responded, "Progress?"

"Yes. Sinclair was the one who retrieved you."

The wolverine's facial fur fluffed briefly, then his features smoothed out to a perfectly blank expression. "Sinclair?"

"Absolutely. He located you in Gafah's capitol and teleported out with you. He must have made quite a jump, because the devastation he left behind is still a matter of some import over there."

"… Sin_clair?_"

"Yes, indeed! And that was on the fourth of October." Rajid paused, frowning. "Had you seen him somewhere else?"

"Not in more than twelve years. That's why I thought it strange … you said _he_ extracted me? _He_ went into Gafah's dungeon and pulled me out? Himself? Personally?"

"He certainly did! He came by my house and told me as soon as he had you admitted to Cedars. Quite proud of himself over it, I would say."

"And you didn't see fit to tell me this before now … why?"

"As you know quite well, you react badly to certain, ah, stimuli. It was felt that this might be numbered among them." He studied the big fur for a few seconds and added, "It would appear not to be the case."

"Yeah. Guess not. Why'd he do it?"

"He was requested to do so."

"And … he just … did it? Just like that? My impression was that he would rather see my hide turned into a lampshade. We parted on what you might call less-than-cordial terms."

"Yes, I am aware of that. I had felt rather the same way, and was surprised when he, ah, took a paw in the case. As I understand it, his wife was the one who finally persuaded him to let the past be past and accede to the request to go after you."

"Huh. Weird." He gave Rajid a long look. "So _you_ brought him in?"

"Only indirectly. I gave his number to the interested party."

"Then who asked him to get me out of there in the first place?"

"Ah … I am not really at liberty …"

Karl held up a paw. "I would think that by now it wouldn't matter. I won't be going anywhere. It isn't as if I could tell anyfur, now is it?"

"Um … eh-heh … while that restriction has obtained up until now, it is currently not, ah, the primary, um, consideration. Or even the tertiary."

That raised a few red flags in Karl's head. _What are they planning, if it's not long-term imprisonment?_ "Why not?"

"It pertains to the reason I am not armed, ah, at any rate, that is, where you are concerned. I have my personal carry, of course."

"Of course."

"Be that as it may, I just recently returned from a meeting with my superiors."

_Here it comes._ "Okay. So what's my sentence?"

"Sentence?"

"Eh, that may be the wrong word. There was no trial, not even a tribunal, so I guess 'sentence' isn't applicable. What are the terms of my incarceration? I assume, from all the effort you've put into keeping me alive that execution wasn't on the table, so that leaves my being a more-or-less permanent installation in one of your labs."

"Ah … you, ah, would appear to be misapprehending the situation."

One eyebrow raised itself marginally.

"Yes. You see, I am here to offer you a job."

"… A job."

"Yes."

"Doing what?"

"Ah … well, eventually, doing whatever you see fit to put your paw to. In more immediate terms, you would be doing the same sort of database mining you've been doing for the last several days, only on a much larger scale."

"… I'm confused."

"And what is the locus of your confusion?"

"The last hard intel I had from the worms I installed in the ISB servers was pretty solidly in the camp of 'take him out any way you can.' No fewer than three generals as much as said they wanted me dead. It's quite a little jaunt from that to a recruitment pitch."

"True enough. However, those attitudes underwent a sea-change after you, ah, ceased to receive unadulterated information. Once it came to light how you had been conducting yourself over the last few years, even the die-hards came around."

"And the theft of half a billion dollars? Are they glossing over that, too?"

"You repaid it."

"Well, yeah."

"With an _exceedingly_ generous interest rate, I might add."

"So nobody's after my head? In our government, I mean?"

"No. You have been exonerated. All pending investigations have been closed. You are, essentially, a free fur."

"Except I'm not."

"I thought you might want to stay where you couldn't harm anyone."

"… ah … that's, um … well, yeah, okay. I do."

"You could hardly get a better arrangement for that purpose than this one."

"Huh. I suppose you're right." He frowned and glanced at the door. "What about … will the nurses still have disrupters?"

"Do you think they might need them?"

His sigh, when it came, was heavy and prolonged. "Yeah. Until I'm no longer … um, unstable. It would probably be for the best. I sure don't want to hurt any of them."

"And that character trait is at the heart of why you are being, ah, managed this way. If we felt that you would be an intentional danger to anyone … hum, ah, well, as they say, things would be different."

"I'll bet."

"So, what do you think?"

"About the job?"

Rajid nodded.

Karl gazed off at nothing for a few breaths and then shrugged.

"So you will take it?"

"Yeah, I guess. Sounds like as good a way as any to pass the time."

"I am gratified to see you so overjoyed at the prospect."

"Look, Raj … if there's one thing I've learned since going freelance, it's that sometimes you just need to be satisfied with what you can get."

"Is there another, um, arrangement that would suit you better?"

After a brief staring contest with the floor, he said, "Nah."

"And it will give you an income."

Karl chuckled wryly. "That's never been what you'd call an issue for me. Anyone with half a brain can make money in commodities. I should know, since I only _have_ half a brain."

"Oh. I see. So you have an alternate income stream?"

"Several. Not like I have anything I want to use it for." He got a pensive look on his face and continued, "Maybe I'll set up some scholarships. Or something similar. I don't have much use for it since I gave up hunting terrorists, and it's just piling up in the accounts."

"Piling up?"

"I have computer programs that play the global commodities markets for me. Of course since returning your money I don't have anything _like_ the capital to play with that I used to, but still I make between three and five hundred thousand a week."

Rajid's mouth worked open and shut a few times. "Ah. Hum. Well. So, ah, that is how you could replace the money you took twice over."

"It is. A typical trade will triple my initial investment. Having a few hundred million to work with made it faster and easier, but …" He shrugged again. "Whatever."

Rajid watched the big fur for a few breaths, but when Karl didn't say anything else, he asked, "Would you object to starting on Wednesday?"

"Object?" The wolverine raised his head. "Why would I object?"

"I have no idea, but it seemed more polite to ask."

"Heh. Yeah. An offer I can't refuse."

"It is not like that at all! We simply …"

"Raj, geez, chill already. I'm just yankin' your chain."

"Ah. Of course. I understand." The mongoose rose and stepped toward the door. "If you would like to get a bit of a jump on things and familiarize yourself with the first database, I can arrange that."

"Yeah, sounds good." His inflection sounded anything but. "How about this afternoon?"

"Very well. I will see to it."

Karl got up to follow him. "Think I'll work out for a while first."

Rajid spared a quick glance at the other's burgeoning physique. "You do seem to be coming along well in that endeavor."

"So would you, if you put as much effort into it as I do."

"As you say." He held the door open. "After you."

As he watched the wolverine pass, Rajid allowed himself a small congratulatory smile; he had successfully steered the conversation around the topic of who exactly had requested Karl's extraction in the first place.

##

_** Thursday 14 December 2017 –9:30am **_

While parts of Karl's recent memory records were damaged, there was apparently no lasting effect on his working and short-term memory function, as soon as the physical healing was complete. It took him about three hours to get really familiar with the database in question – and that was only because it was so mind-blowingly huge – and then he got to work. He quickly developed his own cross-reference shortcuts, and in less than ten hours of effort he had distilled the salient information from the unmanageable tons of chaotic data. His report lay on Rajid's desk by supper time the previous day, and the Director had spent practically the whole night poring over it and digesting the conclusions … conclusions which he didn't like, even a little bit.

The mongoose glanced up when his door opened to admit Karl. "Yes, come in, please. Have a seat."

Karl spotted what Rajid was reading and said, "Something wrong with my deductions?"

"Wrong, no. Disturbing, very."

He spun a chair around so that its arm was next to the desk, and sat. "Thought you might react that way."

Flipping a couple of pages, Rajid found the highlighted section he wanted. "This would seem to indicate that Berger is a double agent."

"Correct. So? Isn't that what you wanted to find out?"

"I wanted to know why two of our missions were compromised. I wasn't expecting this."

"Have you had Berger picked up yet?"

"The DoD sent a couple of MPs after him at oh-eight-thirty. Their bodies were discovered about ten minutes ago."

"Whoa! Well. I am … wow. I'm sorry about that." He drummed his fingers on the wood a few times. "How'd they die?"

"Some kind of inhalation poison, per the preliminary diagnosis. They are en route to the lab now."

"Poison. Huh. Their flak vests didn't do much good against that."

"No, that they did not."

"Have you started going through Berger's files yet?"

"Started, yes. But I would like for you to investigate his systems."

"Why me?"

"You are currently the best approximation of a computer expert I have on paw."

"Where's Jonesy?"

"In Cardiff, and I do not have the time to wait for Carol to return, either. I need answers from that box and I need them quickly."

"Okay. I'll go take it apart." He rose and turned toward the door.

Rajid said, "Wait a bit, please. I haven't told you its location."

"Oh? You moved it?"

"We felt it prudent."

_What does __that__ mean? _ "So where is it?"

"Marla has it."

That pulled him up short. Brows drawing together, he said, "Marla? Why, is it a weapon of some sort?"

"We detected some unusual energy signatures, and the case is made of some alloy that distorts x-rays."

"Ah. Bomb, then."

"Very probably. Or at least a self-destruct mechanism of some sort."

"Right. Marla's place it is. Thanks for the heads-up."

##

_** 10:30am **_

The hard drive was extracted without the dubious excitement of a detonation, a fact that pleased Marla to no end. The old Beorn hadn't been much afraid of bombs (small ones) and tended to have something of a cavalier attitude toward disarming them. She considered the new, more careful Beorn a definite improvement.

Now he was deeply involved in unraveling the device's digital secrets. The security protocols weren't too bad, but there were several layers of them, all booby-trapped. He didn't want to have some failsafe program erase all the data before he could get to it, so he was taking lots of time and no chances.

Initially, Marla watched his every move, trying to learn some of what he knew about cracking such systems, but his prodigious leaps of logic and the speed with which he could do the job quickly overwhelmed her. After a while she turned her attention back to less esoteric, more intentionally fatal pursuits.

Karl had four of the main files freed and stored elsewhere, and had noted that he had ten to go, when Rajid knocked on the slightly-open door of the office he was using. Sparing the mongoose a quick glance, he said, "Come on in."

Rajid watched him unlace the security around the fifth file for several seconds before stating, "The urgency of your task has recently declined somewhat."

That caught the big guy's attention. He paused a scan and looked over at Rajid. "How so?"

"Berger was just apprehended. An air marshal noticed him in the crowd at Logan and gave chase through the terminal and into the baggage-handling area. He got shot for his trouble, but the commotion …" He paused at Karl's obvious alarm and added, "He'll be fine. 'Tis but a flesh wound."

"Ah. Good."

"Yes. The gunshots alerted the ground crew, one of whom had his carry permit. I do not believe Berger expected to encounter armed resistance from that quarter. The handler was able to draw down on him before Berger could fire."

"Heh. Took the better part of valor, did he?"

"True. He knows we will not kill him – that is to say, not at this time – due to the value of the information he carries. He is _en route_ as we speak."

"So do I need to keep at this or not?"

"I would say not. As long as we have Berger, we can get to his information at our leisure."

"I thought he represented a clear and present danger."

"Oh, he does, he does. But he is sedated, and as far as we have been able to determine, his, ah, affiliates do not know that he has been captured."

"And you know this, how?"

"We locked his communications twenty minutes after I received your report. Our monitors intercepted four calls prior to the arrival of the MPs, and then we deactivated his PA. We have been tracking the two numbers he called, and there has been no more activity."

"Sketchy. He may have more contacts than that."

"He may. But he covered a lot of ground in a short time, and had little opportunity to access any other communication nodes."

"Eh. Fair enough." He leaned back in his chair, then stood and stretched. "Think I'll go work out." At the door, he turned and eyed Rajid. "Say, could you do me a favor?"

"If it is feasible."

"I'd like to start sparring again."

"Very well. You need sparring partners?"

"Yep. If you could arrange to have a few drop by, I'd appreciate it."

"That should be no problem."

Karl nodded his thanks and left.

##


	18. Chapter 5 Ruminations B

_**Chapter Five – Ruminations – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**The thing that makes you exceptional,  
><strong>**if you are at all,  
><strong>**is inevitably that which must also make you lonely.**

_**-Lorraine Hansberry**_

##

_** Tuesday 19 December 2017 – near Boston – 4:00pm **_

Over the next four days Karl analyzed five more cases, distilling each to its essential logical connections, and producing information which led, eventually, to almost three dozen arrests. He also managed to thwart an assassination in the bargain.

Nevertheless, he hadn't started off precisely excited about the work, and as the days passed his enthusiasm paled. He knew the work was strategically important. He knew it was something he was good at, something that hardly anyone else on the planet could do as well. He knew he was saving the ISB untold hundreds of hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars. But he just couldn't quite make himself care about it.

Then, last night, he finally had a dream that he remembered upon waking. The time since he had spent either in the gym or the cafeteria, and the facial expression he carried around all day assured that no one attempted to have any direct interaction with him. He had arrived several minutes early for his four-o'clock appointment with Dr. Rispin, and was waiting with ill-concealed impatience when she showed up.

They had barely settled into their respective seats when he began. "I dreamed about Wendy last night."

"From your agitated state, may I assume it was not a pleasant dream?"

"No. It wasn't. But the real problem is that I don't know if this is a memory surfacing or just a, a … just an aberration."

"Would you like to tell me about the dream?"

She got the benefit of his stare for several seconds. "Yyyyeah. I think it'll have to work that way unless you can pull it from my head with your Awesome Mental Powers."

"Sarcasm doesn't really help the situation, you know."

"I know. But when you offer such an obvious target …" He shrugged it off and repositioned himself, leaning forward. "So, anyway. There were three … I guess you'd say 'phases' to the dream. In the first I was working on a … piece of equipment that I'd designed. I would say this part was memory, because I know I actually _did_ build the thing … I recall getting it finished and driving it out to the Inn the day the terrorists attacked. But … but I was in an unfamiliar building, and the sled was disassembled."

"Sled?"

"Machine. It's a powered sled for travel over snow."

"Ah."

"I knew, in the dream, that the sled was complete, but I'd taken it apart again to … to do a modification. I wanted it to be a hovercraft … but I didn't know why." He shook his head hard twice. "It wasn't really a sequence; more like a snapshot. A photograph, but with lots of explanatory text. I knew what I was doing, and why, but the scene only lasted a second or two."

"Very well. Is this scene tied in with the others?"

"That's what I don't know. I was hoping you would have some insight there."

"I will certainly try. What was the next part?"

"I was chasing a fox."

"Wendy?"

"No, no. A _feral_ fox."

"A feral? Really? And why were you chasing it?"

"To protect Wendy."

"… Do you know how chasing the fox was supposed to do that?"

Confusion chased disgust across his face. "Um … well … not precisely. I think it was important to her … somehow. There was this huge sense of urgency about it, though, and I was running about as fast as I could go to keep up with the fox. And it expected me to follow it."

"The _feral_ expected you to chase it?"

"Yeah. Like it was … waiting for me. Looking for me?" There was that head shake again. "Something."

"Okay. Dreams don't have to make a lot of sense."

"Uh, yeah … see, that's where things get a little … screwy. Because I'm pretty sure that was a memory."

She cocked her head a bit while she studied him. "What makes you say that?"

"It _feels_ like a memory, like one of my older memories. It's not fuzzy around the edges, or jerky, or afflicted with blank patches. I can feel the dampness in the air, the sound of my breath, the brush of the grass against my legs, the pungent scent of the fox as it races in front of me. The memory is a complete, though short, image."

"And the sense of urgency?"

"Ah … well … that part I don't have nailed down yet."

"And do you know how this sequence is connected with the first one?"

"Yes. In both cases, what I'm doing is being done to help Wendy, to protect her from … something. Or someone."

Now, Dr. Rispin was not privy to all of the ISB's information about Karl. At those points where the details intersected with active cases, or areas sensitive to national security, or –as in this instance – with an ongoing investigation being carried out by another agency, the doctor was deemed not to 'need to know'. So she had no idea that Karl had fought and killed the crazed, supernatural being that had left a string of corpses across the northern border of the country the previous year. Neither did he.

"Hm. But you don't know why it was that she needed your protection?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Do you have any sense of location in the dream? Does it feel like somewhere you know you've been?"

He had to think that one over. To call his recollection of the last seven or eight months 'sketchy' would be giving it high praise, indeed. He knew he'd spent (_Both of us! She was there, too!_) … okay, **they** had spent some time in Canada. But he 'knew' that information the way he 'knew' that the seas around Tierra del Fuego were treacherous, never having actually sailed there. It was as if he was recalling what someone had told him third-paw. Finally he offered, "Maybe? Maybe somewhere in Quebec or … or Alberta?"

"Is that because you remember it, or because you worked it out logically?"

A frustrated sigh leaked out. "Crap, doc, I don't even know _how_ to answer that!"

"Well, you know, you did spend a good bit of time in Canada. You were there through the summer."

That spaced him out a little. He stared off at nothing until Dr. Rispin cleared her throat.

His head snapped back up. "… Huh?"

"We'll, uh … we'll let that one rest a bit. What about the third part?"

"Uh. Yeah. That's the denouement. My failure."

"Failure, how?"

"Failure to protect her. I can see her, floating in … something. She's about to go under. She's been wounded. But then she's floating – or maybe not exactly _floating_ – in something else. She's not drowning anymore, but she's … lying in water. And she's dying. And there isn't anything I can do to save her."

"Well, obviously _that_ isn't a memory, since we know that she is perfectly fine."

"Yeah … so you've said." He held up a paw when she began to protest. "I'm not saying I doubt your word; not about _that_. It's just that … this part … well, it's got a lot of the same, ah, attributes as the second piece. It _feels_ like a memory."

"But she _didn't_ drown, so maybe it _isn't_ a real memory; it doesn't seem to be a coherent recalling of an event. Maybe it's only a construct your subconscious put together out of fragments of other memories."

He thought that over for a few seconds and shrugged. "Maybe. But if so, where did those pieces of memory come from?"

"Apparently from somewhere in the last seven months."

"But you said she was … _is_ … whole. Undamaged."

"That was Mr. Rajid's position, yes. He has met with her more than once."

"So," he insisted, "if she was wounded, and that memory is true, wouldn't she have scars?"

"I don't know. You didn't explain the nature of her injury in your dream. _Would_ it have left scars?"

"Without doubt! She'd been cut open. Nearly gutted."

"Good lord!" Dr. Rispin leaned back and mulled that over. "Well, then, I think we can safely say that this piece of your dream did not originate as a memory fragment."

"But it seemed so real!"

"They can do that. Research has shown that the mind, and especially the memory, is an alarmingly malleable thing. People 'remember' events that did not happen all the time, and will sometimes swear that their memories are true, even in the face of hard evidence to the contrary. That's why 'eye-witness' accounts are so unreliable." She made a motion at his head with one paw. "Given the extremely high level of trauma that you suffered, it is not surprising that your mind is embellishing the facts to some degree."

"That," he responded drily, "is less than comforting, doctor."

"Making you _comfortable_ is not what I'm here for, Karl. I want to make you _better_, and that may, at times, get very _**un**_comfortable."

He crossed his arms, leaned back in the chair, and said nothing.

"So … was what you described the entire sequence?"

"Yes."

"Was there any more to the dream?"

He shook his head. "No. And that's really all I wanted to talk about." He stood suddenly and headed for the door. "I need to hit the gym. My sparring team will be showing up at five, and they're never late."

And before she could object, he was gone.

##

_** Thursday 20 December 2017 – 1:45am **_

The previous evening Karl had spent in paw-to-paw sparring bouts with many of the top martial artists in the ISB's employ. After the first twenty minutes, at his insistence, they started teaming up, and by the end of the night he was going at it with four or five at a time. He was trying to test his limits, successfully, as it turned out. Calling it quits around nine o'clock, he went straight back to his quarters, and sank immediately into a profound sleep of exhaustion.

And then he dreamed.

_. . . . . . . the nameless thing still followed, still menaced,  
>and he was sure it knew where they were<br>even though they had run and run and run and doubled back  
>and waded down a piece of river,<br>and now they were hiding in the house,  
>in one of the basement bedrooms where no one ever came anymore,<br>cobwebs across the small and dusty windows,  
>and he was sure it was upstairs somewhere,<br>and her eyes as she mouthed silent questions at him  
>were large and wet and afraid . . . . . . .<em>

#

The week before Christmas was even more hectic at Ash Creek Inn this year than it had been the season before. The previous evening had been the fifth large catered event in six days, and Wendy's nerves were worn down to nubs. When first going over the schedule the week before, Ellen had declared a moratorium of sorts for Thursday and Friday, since there was a huge banquet planned for Saturday afternoon. What that meant was that they had gone to bed with the (for recent times) unusual knowledge that they wouldn't have to get up at any set time in the morning. They were both too stressed, and Ellen too tired, for love-making, and after knocking off a bottle of good champagne in celebration, they dropped off to sleep quickly.

For reasons unknown to her, Wendy hadn't done any notable dreaming in quite a while. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was the mental exhaustion of the sudden influx of business. (She'd had to hire two extra helpers for the season.) Maybe it was her intrinsically distressed state of mind where her love life was concerned. Maybe it was a side-effect of maintaining her mental shield all the time. Certainly, there were enough possible causes. In any case, she hadn't experienced a dream worth recalling in weeks. Tonight would change that.

#

Anyone listening at Karl's door would have had his hackles raised at the grunts and moans and sobs.

_. . . . . . . again they ran,  
>but she went a different way<br>and now the thing had paused,  
>waiting at the edge of the dark wood<br>while he stood, panting, leaning against the rough wood of the barn,  
>but then it moved,<br>he could hear it, moving away, following her, not him,  
>and he surged off the wall and ran after it<br>and he could see it, see part of it,  
>a more intense blackness in the lengthening shadows,<br>flitting along just above the ground,  
>dipping and sniffing as if it could smell her . . . . . . .<em>

#

The vixen had gained a large measure of control over her mind shield of late; practice makes perfect, as the saying goes, and she'd had plenty of practice. So Ellen got hardly any bleed-through from the dream that gripped her lover.

_. . . . . . . The ground is soft, loamy, and dark;  
>dark like the shadows in this wood;<br>dark like the stains on the cloak she pulls around her  
>to ward off the chill as she hurries along on her errand.<br>Her goal is beyond her sight, but not beyond her heart,  
>and it pulls, pulls her on.<br>She ignores the small dramas playing out to either side,  
>the schemes and fears and hopes and wistful longing<br>that is so commonplace among average furs.  
>She can feel him! He is not far.<br>Her feet move faster, the cloak flying out behind her. . . . . . . ._

#

_. . . . . . . He comes upon the thing suddenly,  
>and just as suddenly there is the blade in his paw,<br>and he strikes, and the sound it makes in dying  
>overcomes all others, and he drops the knife,<br>and the blue stone at its pommel pulses and glows  
>in a keening rhythm before exploding,<br>and then the dark wood is gone . . . . . . ._

#

_. . . . . . . She stands before the place,  
>the dungeoncastle/fortress/haven,  
>and she has never seen it before,<br>but she knows it, knows its secrets,  
>knows how to get around its many tricks and traps.<br>The halls are long and full of light,  
>light that casts no shadow,<br>and she doesn't understand this,  
>but she can't stop to ponder its significance now.<br>She has to find him.  
>Running along the halls, up the stairs, more halls,<br>why doesn't someone put an elevator in this place?  
>And there is the door.<br>Her paw touches the knob, and the door swings inward. . . . . . . . _

#

_. . . . . . . The room was dark,  
>the bed narrow and uncomfortable.<br>How had he come here?  
>Where was the forest, the knife,<br>the facinorous thing that had menaced them?  
>For that matter, where had she gone?<br>At an unexpected sound,  
>his head jerked toward the door . . . . . . .<em>

#

_. . . . . . . She stands there, framed  
>in the faint light spilling in from the passage,<br>and she knows him.  
>She knows his touch, his breath, his heartbeat,<br>his very mind, and trembles at the closeness.  
>Her first step hesitant, she enters the room<br>and walks over to where he lies at length on a hard cot.  
>"Who has imprisoned you thus, my Love?" she whispers. . . . . . . .<em>

#

_. . . . . . . That Voice! He knew that Voice!  
>Realizing that his eyes were closed,<br>he strained to open them.  
>Then she was there, standing over him,<br>whispering to him! He could hear her . . . . . . ._

#

_. . . . . . . Seeing his eyes open, she smiles.  
>A delicate paw reaches down to caress his face<br>and he gasps in shock at the touch.  
>"It will be all right now, my Love.<br>I have found you.  
>We two will be never more apart." . . . . . . . .<em>

#

_. . . . . . . He can't believe it. She has found him.  
>Against all odds, against sane judgment,<br>she has come to him again.  
>He sits quickly and takes her paw in his.<br>"You must not be here!  
>I can't protect you this way!<br>You must stay away!"  
>It is then that he senses once more the rising dread,<br>and he stands.  
>Drawing his blade, he steps around her.<br>"Stay behind me! Don't let it see you!" . . . . . . ._

#

_. . . . . . . Sadness claims her. He doesn't understand.  
>"No, my Love, it is only in your presence that I am whole.<br>Only with you can I be safe, be free, be well."  
>But he doesn't heed her, and places himself<br>between her and the door.  
>The room is brighter now and she sees that the light<br>is coming from the brilliant blue jewel  
>on the hilt of his dagger.<br>The floor trembles, just enough to notice,  
>and he crouches and takes a step toward the door.<br>His lips pull back in a feral grimace,  
>and around his bulk she can just barely see<br>that something is standing in the hallway. . . . . . . ._

#

_. . . . . . . He only has time to wonder  
>how this thing can be here again,<br>threatening them again,  
>before it howls and leaps, black wings wide,<br>claws out, mad eyes glinting red,  
>and the battle is joined.<br>Once, twice, and again the thing strikes,  
>and it carries poison in its talons,<br>but he was not idle and the thing retreats  
>minus an arm.<br>They circle each other.  
><em>_The thing notices the vixen,  
>and its lips split and curl in victory<br>as it spins to attack her.  
>But he is quicker, and lands on its back,<br>the dagger high in both paws  
>before coming down on its neck like a guillotine.<br>The coruscating blue light from the stone  
>seemed to penetrate everything in the room<br>as a soundless explosion spun him off into the darkness . . . . . . ._

#

_. . . . . . . Seeing the hideous thing fighting her Love,  
>she can only cry in frustration,<br>"It is not real! It is a Nothing! A figment! Resist! Believe!"  
>But he cannot hear her.<br>The knife rises and falls, and the room  
>disappears<br>in a shuddering blue flash. . . . . . . ._

And Wendy came up off the bed by a good pawspan, her pillow muffling a shriek. She lay there, searching for breath, fighting back the strangled sobs for more than a minute before she slid silently out from under the quilts. Padding carefully so as not to disturb Ellen, she eased out the door and over to the next room. The following hour eked out its life while she sat in the tub in Ellen's Bath, hot water up to her chin, trying to make some sense of this latest experience.

##


	19. Chapter 5 Ruminations C

_**Chapter Five – Ruminations – Part C**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

**We are healed of suffering only by expressing it to the full. **

_**-Marcel Proust**_

##

_** Friday 22 December 2017 – near Boston – 2:15pm **_

Rajid's PA beeped at him. Irritably, he drew it from its holster and flipped it open. "Yes?"

Dr. Rispin's diminutive features held a look the mongoose hadn't seen before. "Mr. Rajid, I think you should come out to the unit."

"Why?"

"Gulo has … ah, produced something you need to see."

"And you are unwilling to explain this over the phone?"

"Not unwilling. Unable."

He followed a frustrated sigh with, "I will be there shortly."

Twenty minutes later he strode into the doctor's office. "Now what is it that has you so exercised?"

The tiny fur had been holding a few sheets of paper. She turned them, placed them on the desk, and pushed them toward Rajid. He frowned and picked up the thin pile. "What is this?"

"Just read them."

He squinted at the scrawls on the paper and read:

_The corners of my Heart soften  
><em>_To the loving caress of your gentle presence.  
><em>_Its fragrance, as it rounds the corner  
><em>_Into the coolness of the porch,  
><em>_And seines through the screen on the door,  
><em>_Is a heady drink, indeed.  
><em>_No more the harsh, the hurried,  
><em>_The unhappy, the solitary.  
><em>_Your quiet laughter has taken me  
><em>_Far beyond such petty things.  
><em>_The canopy is shady, the evening light low.  
><em>_Beloved, let us stop a while.  
><em>_And here, escaping care for the moment,  
><em>_I would share with you the dream._

The mongoose looked up and met the doctor's gaze. "_Gulo_ wrote this?"

"He did."

"When?"

"Some time in the last week, I believe." She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the hardwood. "We had been discussing the relative merits of writing down one's feelings, worries, desires, and troubles. He said he'd give it a try."

"This must be aimed at Wendy."

"I think so."

"Then he really is coming to terms with … or is he?"

She waved a paw at the papers. "Just keep reading."

Rajid took a seat in one of the two comfortable leather chairs, pulled the top sheet aside and laid it on the desk.

_As when the ripest of red plums  
><em>_Suspended  
><em>_Tempts the passing traveler  
><em>_To reach and grasp and pluck,  
><em>_So, too, do you  
><em>_As you flow toward me,  
><em>_Slowly descending the stair,  
><em>_Your smallest motion  
><em>_Of foot or paw  
><em>_Straining my breath –  
><em>_Inflaming my mind –  
><em>_Wrapping my heart  
><em>_In crystal, adamantine bands.  
><em>_You are all the beauty I know._

_Or were I the plum,  
><em>_Waiting in perfect, parviscient peace,  
><em>_Serene in my ignorance –  
><em>_And you the fair wayfarer –  
><em>_In trembling eagerness  
><em>_I await the moment  
><em>_When your soft, black fingers  
><em>_Meet around me.  
><em>_I welcome the pain  
><em>_Of the parting stem,  
><em>_And revel in the experience,  
><em>_The newness,  
><em>_As you take that first bite._

"Dear God."

The doctor nodded. "Yes."

"It would seem he has not expunged his feelings for her."

"What was your first clue, Mr. Rajid?"

"This could get … awkward."

"And yet he still insists that she can never come near him again."

"The poor fellow! He must feel as if he is living in hell."

"Ha. Keep reading."

Rajid gave her a worried look and moved to the next page.

"Read it out loud."

"Really? Why?"

"You'll understand."

"Very well." He cleared his throat and spoke.

_How can you know the turmoil?  
><em>_My mind, at war with my heart,  
><em>_Spinning me about, a leaf in the eddies.  
><em>_Fog does its part, showing nothing,  
><em>_Revealing no answers,  
><em>_Robbing me of my haven: Reason.  
><em>_This fog, emotion, bears no enmity,  
><em>_Seeks none out with purpose.  
><em>_Yet I am struck._

_And now, why now?  
><em>_Have I not just escaped the storm?  
><em>_Fought free! Only to throw myself  
><em>_Back into the torrent.  
><em>_Not with good advice is this done,  
><em>_But with heedless spirit.  
><em>_Can I not find the will to turn away?  
><em>_RUN! is whispered, and FLEE! But no.  
><em>_If I am to sink, so be it.  
><em>_The lure is too great.  
><em>_And am I not, O Fate,  
><em>_Yet a strong swimmer?_

Rajid let his paws fall into his lap. "Ohhhhh, this is not going to end well."

"I'm glad you agree."

"Does he know you have these?"

"I don't think so. Those are scans, as you can see."

"Has he discussed these poems with you?"

"Not yet, but he did mention in one of our sessions that he was writing them. Adam noticed them on Gulo's desk when he was doing the weekly inspection, read the top one, and brought them to me. I copied them and had him put them back before Gulo returned from his workout."

"This is most disturbing."

"You aren't finished."

He dropped his eyes to the papers and shifted to the next one in the stack. "Well. These are cinquains."

"Up on your poetic forms I see."

"Eh. Not really. I used to write these sorts of things myself." He read the first one and his eyes widened. "I did not write like this, though."

"Perhaps you didn't have the same motivation."

Rajid nodded and said, "I'll read these aloud."

"Fine by me."

_Her gaze  
><em>_Too real to touch.  
><em>_I know the peril now:  
><em>_Riant, brown eyes flashing at mine,  
><em>_Bemused._

_So close.  
><em>_The long cascade  
><em>_Of her tail wraps my mind  
><em>_In its delicate embrace. Now –  
><em>_Feel it!_

_I stand  
><em>_Before her face,  
><em>_M__y defense a shambles,  
><em>_That shattered look ever stabbing  
><em>_My mind._

"There it is _again!_ He is stuck on having hurt her – destroyed her livelihood, he said."

Dr. Rispin nodded in agreement. "Which we know to be untrue. Or at least rectified. But he won't accept that." She pointed at the sheaf. "Read the next one."

Rajid shuffled the top sheet to the bottom and read.

_I dreamed a dream of rainbows.  
><em>_Let me show you.  
><em>_They are red, and orange, and yellow, and green, and blue.  
><em>_Red, the sour red of congealed ..._

He stopped, his eyes growing large. "Good Lord."

"Like that, do you?"

"Hardly the word, doctor."

"Keep reading."

_... sour red of congealed blood, pooled on the ground by her head.  
><em>_Orange, a light umber, where her fur is matted and stained and burnt around the puckered holes.  
><em>_Yellow, the golden light in her eyes, forever snuffed out and lifeless.  
><em>_Green, the slick grass, trampled and torn where they danced around her body.  
><em>_Blue, the cold, impersonal motion of blued steel mechanisms, cocking and firing.  
><em>_This is my rainbow.  
><em>_Would you share it?_

The mongoose licked his lips. His fingers were shaking just the slightest bit. "Did he … tell you about this … this nightmare?"

"No. He has become very close-mouthed concerning his dreams over the last few days."

"We _must_ get through to him somehow."

"I'm working on it." She jerked her head at the papers. "You've got one left."

"Ah. Yes." He cleared his throat.

"Don't read this one out loud."

"… I beg your pardon?"

"You'll see. Just read it."

_Sit and wonder and wish …_

_What would you have me do?_

_Half of me is here, and half - where?_  
><em>Hidden inside, layers under layers, or<em>  
><em>Ashes and mould, scattered, or<em>  
><em>Beaten flat, unrecognizable, or<em>  
><em>Simply a different color,<em>

_But_

_a color I cannot see, or -_

_or -_

_- or -_

_Such a meaningless word._

_Should I cry?_

_To whom? And for what reason?_

_Should I scream at the injustice?_  
><em>But I am not dead.<em>  
><em>- Mostly.<em>  
><em>I think I have lived through worse,<em>  
><em>But I am unsure.<em>

_So much I don't know._  
><em>Who can tell me?<em>

_So much I long to see, to remember._  
><em>Who would I believe?<em>

_I am the Halfalive,_  
><em>the Halfhere,<em>  
><em>the Halfknown and Halfknowing.<em>

_The glass is cracked._

_If once it brimmed,_  
><em>But is spilled,<em>  
><em>I cannot see it as half full.<em>

_It will never hold any more._  
><em>But it may lose what it has.<em>

_It is broken. It is me._

_I am a cracked vessel, leaking._

Rajid stopped, staring at the paper, and sniffled.

"Mr. Rajid, I think you should know that recently he has become a good deal more … reticent. Uncommunicative."

"Meaning?"

"I've seen symptoms like these before. In my opinion he is contemplating suicide."

"… Do you think he will really try it?"

"If he is convinced that nothing will ease the pain … then, yes, he very well may. However, as I understand it, we have him under surveillance constantly."

"To an extent, yes. Obviously there are times and places where such tracking would be an egregious invasion of privacy. If he chose to try to kill himself in the shower, we would not know of it." He grew thoughtful for a moment. "We can, however, arrange to monitor his heart rate all the time. That would give us some warning."

"Then I think you should set that up as soon as you can."

"I believe I will." He wasn't quite running as he left the doctor's office.

##

_** Christmas Eve, 2017 – near Boston – 9:00am **_

"I won't, you know."

"I believe you!"

"Then why the heart monitor? I can't think of any other conceivable reason for it. You think I'm about to knock myself off."

"It is simply a standard procedure for …"

"Can the B.S. Raj." The two of them sat in Karl's temporary office, the wolverine at his desk, and Rajid in a nearby chair. "You know and I know that if I wanted to stop living there isn't really any practical way you can prevent it." He leaned forward, tapping the desk for emphasis. "But if I didn't kill myself after Phoebe, after taking out the Cartel, after running out of enemies and then basically having nothing left to live for, when I wasn't even a Christian and had no knowledge of the afterlife … why in God's name do you think I'd do it now?"

Rajid didn't quite squirm under that penetrating gaze. "Ah … well … Dr. Rispin thinks that you have shown signs of … ah, extreme mental turmoil."

"Can you blame me? I wouldn't be _**sane**_ if I weren't experiencing 'extreme mental turmoil'. A chunk of my life was stolen. It's gone. Kaput. I'm off balance." Lacing his fingers together, he rested his muzzle on them. "This is hard, Mr. Rajid … very, very hard. That I have mood swings should be the least of your worries. What on earth did you expect?"

_What, indeed? You were ever the enigma, Mr. Gulo._ He cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, I believe this precaution is warranted. You are healing, in many ways, but you still have … episodes. We need to know, if it is only to allow us to offer any help you may require, if you have a truly bad attack."

Karl eased back in his seat and regarded the mongoose for a few breaths. Finally he shrugged. "If that's the way you want to play it, I guess I can adjust."

Rajid carefully allowed the breath he'd been holding to escape silently. "Thank you."

"I suppose you're welcome."

Rajid sat there quietly for a several moments, until Karl noticed that he was obviously searching for a way to bring something up. "Spit it out, Raj. Don't give yourself a hernia."

"I, ah, I was, ah, contacted. Yesterday."

"… Yes? And?"

"Ah … it was a request for a visitation."

Karl's brows drew together. "Visitation? From whom?"

"From, ah … from Wendy."

Not a hair moved, not a muscle twitched. At length Karl asked, in a clipped tone, "… She called you?"

"Yes. Yes, she did."

"Mr. Rajid, I have made it as abundantly clear as I thought possible that she is to have no contact with me."

"Ahhm … that you did."

He turned back to his desk, looking away from his visitor. "Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Well …" He rolled his chair over beside Karl. "She was, um, very persuasive."

"I can be persuasive, myself, if the situation calls for it."

"This I know. However, her entreaties were quite impassioned. If you would just take a few minutes to …"

Karl's paw shot out and clamped on Rajid's muzzle. He didn't look over at the mongoose as he said, "I think we can consider that topic off-limits."

Rajid's eyes bugged briefly in shock, but Karl quickly released him. He drew a shaky breath. "Off-limits. I understand."

"I was hoping you would. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do."

Rajid made a quick exit. He was not looking forward to Wendy's follow-up call. When she had suggested this as a gesture of Christmas goodwill, Rajid had been skeptical. Now he was certain. _You are never going to see him again, Miss Wylde, and you should just make up your mind that way and get on with life. He will not be moved._


	20. Chapter 6 Distance A

_**Chapter Six – Distance – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**Art is a hammer to beat the world,  
>not a mirror to reflect it.<strong>

_**-Vladamir Majakovskij**_

##

_** Tuesday, December 12, 2017, 7:10pm **_

Matt Sinclair was in the groove.

His paintings typically progressed in distinct stages. First, he would get an idea for what he wanted to accomplish. Next he would sketch out the general scene, locating the main elements and checking for overall balance. Then he would paint in the principle character (be it fur or tree or brook or whatever) and work on that until he was satisfied with it. After that, he usually pulled up a chair and simply contemplated the piece for a while as the spirit of the thing congealed in his mind. At some point he would stand and begin to paint the rest of the picture, allowing his subconscious gradually to take over, and the longer he worked, the faster he went. At that point he didn't stop until he was done. If the canvas was a large one, such as the one at which he labored now, that sometimes meant that he would stand in front of it, his paw moving almost in a blur, for several hours. But neither he nor anyone who ever saw his paintings could argue with the results.

In the current case, the commission was a portrait, but one that would express the essential character of the subject. Since Matt had been contacted through a third party, he had arranged a meeting with the buyer. That meeting developed into a weekend stay for him and Diedra at the buyer's beach house, and a couple of turns around the Bay on a catamaran. Then Matt thought he was ready.

When he stood back, wiped the sweat off his face, and reviewed his efforts, a slow smile crept across his muzzle. The subject of the portrait, a sleek, gray, feline starlet in her mid-twenties that four-fifths of the population would recognize instantly, was perched up at the top of her heeling catamaran, one foot's claws dug into the all-weather carpet on the deck, the other balanced on the low rail; the long, smoky feather of her tail curled away in the stiff breeze. With her right arm wrapped around one of the rigging lines, she had her left thrown outward in a gesture of purest delight as the salt spray dotted her white, sleeveless top and matching shorts. Her head was tilted back slightly, allowing the viewer, whose point of reference was somewhat elevated, to get a good look at her eyes, in which glowed such a fire, such a passion for her avocation, that no one seeing it could be unaffected. But that was only the overall effect, the 'first impression'. The longer one looked, the more one saw, and heard, and felt, and lived. Scenes from her life dipped and danced among the whitecaps, but were only visible out of the corner of one's eye, disappearing when studied, leaving only their ghosts in the viewer's mind. The effect built until one could smell the tang of ocean air, pick up whispers of some of her well-known songs, almost feel the bracing spray as the craft skipped across the waves; and the girl's jubilation spilled out of the painting, washing over the viewer, leaving in anyone who saw it a spiritual lift and a longing to join her in her play.

_Yeah, that'll do_, Matt thought. Stripping off the heavily-spattered smock, he moved over to a small area that was devoted to 'off time' when he would rest from his labors. He pulled a bottle of green tea out of the refrigerator, twisted off the cap and took a long drink, smacking his lips in satisfaction, then flopped down on an overstuffed couch. A quick glance to the side showed that he had a message waiting on his PA, and a closer look revealed it to be from his wife. With a grin, he flipped open the device and looked at what she'd left him; then his grin threatened to split his face open. He vanished, leaving behind a frigid draft, and reappeared in his shower, the afterimage of the photo on his PA lending all due speed to his efforts.

##

_** Thursday, December 14, 2017, 10:00am – New York City **_

"I never really get used to this place."

Matt glanced over at Diedra. "What do you mean?"

She waved a well-manicured paw around at their private viewing box. "This … oh, you can call it opulence, I guess. There's no good reason for Sotheby's to have us all 'lavished-up' like this. Seriously, champagne and strawberries? What's that all about? We could just as easily be sitting out there with the bidders."

"It's a perk, Dear. It's what they do for sellers who they anticipate will make them a lot of money."

"It just seems so over-the-top, though. I mean, why …" She broke off as one of the attendants came in.

The severely-dressed bulldog lifted the ornate silver top from the tray he carried, revealing a selection of canapes. "Would Madam care for a bit of refreshment?"

Cheese was a weakness of hers, and a formidable collection graced the tray. Eyes widening, she bit her lip and glanced at Matt, who was having a large grin at her expense.

He waved her on. "What'd I say? It's a perk. Indulge yourself. I daresay that Edam would go quite well with the champagne."

She gave in, chuckling quietly, and turned to the servant. "Yes, thank you. Just leave it on the table, there."

"Very good."

There wasn't much left on the platter by the time the auction started. But an hour later she had forgotten all about the refreshments.

##

"Matt, how do you _stand_ this?" Diedra hissed.

"It just doesn't bother me."

"Well it bothers _me_ enough for the _both_ of us!"

"Don't let it get a hold on your blood pressure, Dear. It _really_ isn't worth the trouble."

She crossed her arms and gave him a disgusted **Humph**. "It's maddening. Your first painting went for an even seventy, and your second for eighty-seven-five. Those were right in line with the estimates we got. But this bidding war is _**shredding**_ my nerves! Who's that mystery-fur on the phone?"

"I don't know. That's what makes him a mystery fur."

"How do you know it's a male?"

He gave her in indulgent smirk. "I don't."

"Ah-huh. And you don't even care, do you?"

"Nope. It's just fun to watch." He patted her arm, and then moved his paw to the back of her head, lightly scratching her scalp in the way he knew she liked. True to form, she closed her eyes and leaned into his claws, giving a tiny churring sound.

Half a minute later he withdrew his paw and she sighed. Opening her eyes again, she absorbed the intent gaze on Matt's face, then took a look at the bid-board, and yelped. "Holy _**cow**_, when did … how did … does that really say four hundred thirty thousand?"

"It does. They traded several rounds, going up ten grand a pop. Then the mystery fur's last call upped the bid by a cool seventy-five."

They watched for a minute, but no more bids came in. Diedra asked, "What was your estimate for that one? Ninety, wasn't it?"

"Yep. Blew _**that**_ number out of the water."

"Is there any way to find out who this guy is?"

"Oh, so now _you're_ assuming it's a guy?"

"No femme would make such a ridiculous bidding jump."

He laughed at that, concluding with, "Geez, chauvinist much?"

"It's just pragmatism, Dear."

"If you say so."

The auctioneer concluded that sale, and Matt's fourth painting of the five he had in the bidding was placed on the easel. "This is _The Raven's Rejoinder_, by Matthew Sinclair. Bids will open at thirty-five thousand." Several cards went up around the room, and the competition quickly became fierce.

Diedra heaved a deep breath and observed, "Looks like that last round gave everyone a real taste for your work."

"Possibly. Or they could be looking at the paintings as investments."

"Kind of a rarified crowd for looking at things that way, dontcha think?"

"Maybe. But furs have gotten investment-crazy over some pretty stupid things. You know what happened in Holland back in the early 1600s with tulip bulbs?"

"Heh. Yeah, I remember reading about that. Speculation went crazy. Made the housing bubble a few years back look like a day at the beach."

Diedra glanced at the bid-board and choked. Matt followed her gaze and gasped, then chuckled. "Boy, that didn't take long."

"I think you must be right about why they're doing it. No one sane would pay a half million just because he liked the … umph … excuse me, six hundred thous … good Lord, are they serious?"

"Ha! Hey, Sweetie, weren't you admiring a Maybach a few weeks ago? You could trade up from your Porsche."

She nodded dumbly, watching as the numbers quickly mounted past three-quarters of a million. Bidding finally halted at eight hundred eighty-five. Sending Matt an arch look, she answered, "Maybach, schmaybach. What about that estate in Montana that used to be a dude ranch?"

His eyes got round as he did a quick mental calculation. "You're … Honey! You're right! With that sale right there, I think we could pay cash for it!"

"Thought so. And the Maybach's pretty, but I think the view from the upper deck of that lodge beats it." She scooted over next to him, lifted his arm and placed it around her neck. "Howsabout I trade in the Porsche for a Land Rover?"

"Babe, you're singin' my song."

The auctioneer waited until Matt's final piece was in place on the stage and said, "This is _Forgotten_ _Inspiration_, by Matthew Sinclair. Bids will open at forty-two thousand …"

##

_** Saturday, December 16, 2017, 10:00am – near New Haven, VT **_

The front door chime reverberated through the long halls and high ceilings of Ash Creek Inn, gaining the attention of the two femmes lounging in the library. Wendy made to rise, but Ellen bounced out of her chair and said, "That'll be the Verrids. I got this."

"You sure? It's no trouble …"

"No, Sweetie, you just relax. I can do this in my sleep."

_I'm sure you could_, thought the vixen, _since you've been pretty much running the place for the past month._ She gave her lover a grateful smile and waggled a few fingers at her as Ellen skipped out to the Main Hall. Wendy didn't bother returning to her novel. She was looking forward to meeting this pair, the very first openly gay couple to stay at the Inn, and she knew that Ellen would conduct them through the library at some point in the mini-tour.

The Fairy Tale Suite and the Green Room were already occupied, those guests having arrived the previous night, but Pat Verrid had been the very soul of grace when they spoke on the phone, insisting that whatever room she had for them would be _ever_ so satisfactory. So she put them in the Art Deco Suite, recently vacated by Ted and Cho Li Border, who had been there for a few days of their honeymoon trip.

Sure enough less than fifteen minutes later, there was a light knock on the tall doors and Ellen stuck her head in. "Wendy, can you spare a mo to say 'Hi' to the Verrids?"

"Sure, bring 'em on in." She stood to meet them as the three furs came trooping through the door, and then fought to keep her grin merely cordial. The two weasels were a study in contrasts. Patrick (with whom she had spoken and from whom she had gotten a very brief description) was short, perhaps only a few centimeters taller than Wendy, and very compact, with his white winter coat clipped into a bilaterally symmetrical pattern of curlicues; his claw tips were painted silver. His partner, Bradley, who seemingly belonged to a subspecies that stayed dark brown all year, was pushing two meters tall, bordered on what Wendy thought of as 'fat', and apparently had never heard of a fur-trimmer. He reminded her a little of Karl, save that he had a pair of ridiculously tiny pince-nez spectacles perched on his snout.

Patrick reached her first and extended a languid paw. "Dear Lady! Your most excellent compatriot here has informed us that you prefer to be addressed by your given name, so please allow me, _Wendy_, to express how delighted we are with this marvelous old house!"

"Why, thank you, Patrick! That's very nice of you …"

Their paws touched.

Now normally, and mostly out of self-defense, Wendy kept her mental shield at what she thought of as 'maintenance level', something that she could manage without putting any real effort into it. That was all she needed, usually, given that the furs around her weren't feeling extremely intense emotions all that often. Physical contact made it _much_ easier to pick up the stray emotion or three, and she would often let that sort of thing leak in when meeting her guests. If she'd had this ability when Hughrena Wermin had come to stay (she would occasionally think to herself) things might have gone quite a bit differently. So she was listening for Patrick Verrid's stray thoughts, and what flooded in shocked her into sudden silence.

Wrapped in a scratchy coat of ill-will and underscored with a deep but casual brutality, Wendy heard:

_[ [ … so this is our mark … ] ]_

_[ [ … she doesn't look sick … ] ]_

_[ [ … maybe it comes and goes … ] ]_

_[ [ … be a piece of cake … ] ]_

_[ [ … damn, she's hot … ] ]_

_[ [ … get her out tonight … ] ]_

_[ [ … kill the others … ] ]_

_[ [ … no witnesses … ] ]_

She gasped and aspirated a bit of saliva, which threw her into a coughing fit. She sat down abruptly and held her gut while wheezing and snorting into her fist. Ellen zipped over and gave her a pawful of tissues. "Wendy, are you okay? What happened?"

Turning watery eyes on the mink – and taking a _very_ quick and subtle glance at the weasels – she said, between coughs, "Sorry. It's a … sort of a chronic … condition … thought it was better." Expanding her empathic field, she read their guests' reactions:

_[ [ … so she __is__ some sort of sicky … ] ]_

_[ [ … have to let the others know … ] ]_

_[ [ … get her after midnight … ] ]_

_[ [ … bring the mink, too … ] ]_

Ellen frowned at her employer/friend/lover and said, "You never told me about that!"

"Yeah, I did. _(cough-cough)_ Remember? That's why we went to see those neurologists."

"Oh! _**That?**__"_ She took a quick look at their guests herself, cleared her throat and said, "That, uh, hasn't bothered you in …"

"Yeah, not that you could see. Not that I _**let**_ you see."

"Not that you _**let**_ me see! Well I like that! You aren't supposed to _**hide**_ stuff like that, Wendy! It could be dangerous!" She sat next to the vixen and patted her back.

Blanking out Ellen's suddenly high level of concern and the overriding emotional flood, Wendy concentrated on picking up thoughts from the weasels.

_[ [ … get in the room … ] ]_

_[ [ … secure communications … ] ]_

_[ [ … call the rest … ] ]_

_[ [ … poison? knives? … ] ]_

_[ [ … have some fun with the mink … ] ]_

_[ [ … see how long she lasts … ] ]_

Wendy's brows drew together as she bowed her head, concealing her face from the assassins. _Kidnapping? Murder? Torture? And there are more of you coming tonight? Well, we will just see about that, won't we?_

##

_** 9:00pm **_

Nothing but the scent of the succulent roast duck still lingered here and there, and the last bits of the tiramisu were a pleasant memory. The dinner dishes were cleaned and stored. Wendy and Ellen and their six guests sat around on the various pieces of furniture in the library, enjoying (well, most of them were) some excellent plum brandy.

The first couple to arrive that weekend were the Rounrocks. Mark and Janice had been some of her very first customers, and were now almost a regular fixture around the Inn. Wendy considered them friends, good ones.

The second set was Terri and Jerry Spanel, a canine couple celebrating their tenth anniversary. They had discovered Ash Creek after downloading the video for Cheetah-Paw Tire's Christmas Special, and were having a marvelous time getting familiar with the old house. Jerry was an architect, Terri an artist, and neither one could be found without a sketchbook in paw. In fact, Terri was currently occupied with recording Wendy's likeness, the huge fireplace serving as a backdrop.

The Verrids sat in separate chairs, taking part in the desultory conversation with ease and aplomb. Wendy had determined some time earlier that they weren't a couple, that their names weren't Patrick or Bradley, and that neither was gay. The entire thing was a ruse. But she had spent the last ten hours or so mapping out a response and taking precautions against the upcoming situation, and thought she had a pretty good grasp of how things would turn out. It would be, she ruminated grimly, significantly different from the way the weasels _thought_ things would go. But she kept her face schooled into an agreeable mask, and traded light banter with the others.

Jerry drained the last sip of his brandy and carefully set the snifter down, smacking his lips. "Wendy, you simply must tell me where I can get some of this!"

"I'd love to, Jerry, if I knew. It came with the house."

His doleful expression drew chuckles from the others. "Oh! Woe is me! Never again to taste such exquisiticity. Such smoothified, wondrifical, … uh … tastyishness."

Terri reached over and popped him on the arm. "Can it, you." Turning back to Wendy, she offered, "That's not the worst example of coinage he's ever committed, either. It's almost a hobby with him."

Ellen giggled. "They say everybody needs a hobby."

"Preferably," answered Terri, "one that won't get him killed."

Wendy had been keeping her channels open, meaning that it was a constant fight to resist blushing. Both of the Spanels thought her extremely attractive, and any number of pleasant scenarios danced through their heads. She regretted having to eavesdrop on the others – it was unavoidable in this close proximity – but she felt it necessary to keep tabs on what the assassins were up to. So she heard the mental equivalent of a smirk after Terri's comment:

_[ [ … little late for that, chicky … ] ]_

_[ [ … earl has a surprise … ] ]_

_[ [ … take care of the customers first … ] ]_

_[ [ … no noise … ] ]_

_[ [ … wonder if the mink's cherry … ] ]_

She let no trace of the black rage she felt show on her muzzle, but had to turn her gaze back to the fireplace. The flames dancing there mirrored those lighting her eyes.

##

_** 11:40pm **_

'_twas the night before mayhem,  
>and all through the house<br>the one creature stirring  
>was surely no mouse.<em>

The bit of doggerel made Wendy chuckle as it flitted across her mind. Fulfilling yet another aspect of her plan, she had pressed an additional bottle of brandy on her guests, and on Ellen, to some extent. The weasels, not surprising her a bit, had declined, 'Bradley' claiming a stomach condition and 'Patrick' maintaining that he had no tolerance for alcohol. She knew their real reasons. But they were _all too happy_ to observe as the gracious vixen got the others more than slightly tipsy. Furs who were deep in their cups would be very easy to kill.

Wendy had other motives, and was about to put them into practice; she checked her appearance, noting with approval the black jumpsuit, gloves and ski mask. She'd be close to invisible in the dark … and she meant to make sure that it _stayed_ dark. Taking several meter-long objects with her and slipping out the back of her room, she moved along the Servants' Walk to the suite where the Spanels were sleeping.

Using her master key, she let herself in, drifted silently past the Bath and the Servant's Room, and over to the entry door, relying on her 'perception' ability to guide her in the place of light. Using one of the extendable 'clubs', she quickly had the door braced against easy entry. It would yield under enough force, but that hard a blow would splinter the wood, and the assassins were trying for stealth. This would doubtless confuse them, if they should try to break in, but she wasn't really planning on giving them the chance. This was more in the way of a safety net. Backtracking quickly, she re-locked the door to the Servants' Walk, and then let herself into the Spanels' Retiring Room. They had taken the Green Room, which made this a good bit easier. She re-locked and braced their door, then moved the dresser several centimeters so that she could get into the secret passage that ran from this room up to the third floor.

She repeated the process with the Rounrocks in the Fairy-Tale Suite, but had to exit the room via a window. It wasn't really a problem for her, per se, but it let in a strong draught of cold air, and she feared that might wake them up. She needn't have worried. It was _**good**_ brandy.

Climbing to the third floor and gaining entrance via a window she'd left unlocked earlier, she took the stairs to the attic and carefully tripped the breakers for all the lights on the first and second floors. Then she took a different secret passage back down to the Servants' Walk and zipped over to her room. She had insisted that Ellen sleep with her, even though the mink had protested that she wouldn't be good for much and that the brandy would make her snore. But her protests had been rather weak. She was all tucked in to Wendy's bed, and dead to the world.

The vixen opened her wardrobe and removed five small objects about two spans long. They were fairly stiff, made primarily of leather, and had a small lead ball encased at one end. This made them illegal in most states, as they could be used as saps. Wendy intended on throwing them instead. She preferred knives for what she was about to do, but didn't want to have to mess around with cleaning up a lot of blood. This would suffice.

After her preparations, it was a simple matter of waiting on the other assassins to arrive, and then doing one of the things that she had ruefully come to realize she did best.

##


	21. Chapter 6 Distance B

_**Chapter Six – Distance – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Sunday, December 17, 2017, 8:20am **_

Ellen bounced on the bed. "Hey, Wendy!"

Blearily, the vixen opened one eye. "Hmnhmh?"

"Wendy, we slept in! The sun's almost up!"

Levering herself up on one elbow, she gave the mink a tired look. "Anybody else up?"

"Eh … no. Just me."

"They're all sleepin' it off, then, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

She yawned. "The continental breakfast can be laid out in a couple minutes, right?"

"Um … yeah. I suppose, but …"

"Why are you so damned perky this morning?"

"Well, hell, Wendy, I'm just tryin' to make sure we take care of the guests!"

Flopping back down on the pillow, the vixen allowed herself a grimace. _Yeah, I took care of the guests last night. Not that __you'll__ ever know about it._ Flashes of the previous night's action slipped across her mind. A hard, heavy object impacting one fur's temple at very high speed; another fur, tall and muscular, dropping without a sigh when she broke his neck; piling the seven corpses and nearly a hundred and twenty kilos of tractor chain into the big SUV the Verrids had come in; speeding nearly an hour to the old settling pond behind the decommissioned power plant up on the river; stashing the SUV in the woods past an abandoned homestead; the run of a good bit _**more**_ than an hour back to the Inn; cleaning out the refrigerator to sate her ravenous hunger once she'd returned.

She rolled over onto her side and closed her eyes. "I didn't sleep well last night, Ellen. Give me another hour, okay?" _Gotta take their clothes and all that other shit somewhere next week and burn it._ At present, the assassins' effects were hidden next to the treasure chest in the dead-end secret passage, liberally doused with scent-removal spray.

Ellen heaved a long-suffering sigh. "For somebody with super-powers, you sure can be a slugabed."

Wendy gaped a prodigious yawn at her and said, "Super-powers are overrated. One hour. 's all I need."

"Okay, then. But I hope I don't have to say 'I told you so' when the Rounrocks miss you at breakfast."

"They'll be hung over. I doubt they'll even eat breakfast. Now … please, please, _please_ let me sleep."

Grumbling, Ellen flounced out and trooped down to the kitchen. She, at least, wanted some coffee.

##

_** 9:40am **_

Wendy made herself presentable and wandered downstairs. She could hear conversation coming from the kitchen, so she meandered over that way.

Ellen and the Spanels were working their way through Wendy's excellent pastries, accompanied by coffee and what Wendy could tell was the extra-dark hot cocoa that Ellen had so masterfully crafted. She grinned and said, "I certainly hope there's some of that cocoa left."

"Oh, hey, Wendy! Sure, it's on the stove."

Wendy got herself a big mug of the silky drink and came over to the table. Taking a seat, she asked, "Just us chickens, so far?"

"Yeah, so far," answered Ellen, then frowned, "at least … well … the Verrid's car is gone."

"Gone? What, they just up and _left_?"

Jerry volunteered, "I thought I heard some clunking around in the middle of the night, but I didn't figure it was any of my business. Plus, I really just wanted to sleep."

"Plus," added his wife, "you really liked that brandy."

He blew her a raspberry.

"Well," answered Ellen, "I haven't been back up to see if one of them is still here or not. I just noticed it a few minutes ago when I went by the porte cochere."

"Huh." Wendy thought furiously, maintaining an outwardly calm and primarily curious expression that she considered worthy of an Academy Award. "Want me to check?"

"Naw. I suspect," she said with a slightly accusatory tone, "that they went after some breakfast, since nobody was up at a reasonable hour."

Terri hooted a laugh. "Wendy, is that _**guilt**_ I see on your face?"

Anyone else might have panicked after that comment, but Wendy could feel the underlying humor coming off the canine, and only chuckled. "I did kinda sleep in a little."

"Heh. So did we. And you had a good bit of that brandy yourself."

"So? It was good brandy."

"I ought to get some gold paint," interjected Ellen, "then she could _really_ have a 'gilt' face."

"Oh, ouch!" protested the vixen with a wince. "I haven't heard a … a pun that bad in …" her voice got very soft. "… in months." Images of Karl intruded on her mind.

"You bring it on yourself."

Wendy blinked at her, her chest suddenly tight. Mumbling, "I'll go see if they're still here," she hurried out of the kitchen before any of them could see her tears.

##

_** Monday, December 18, 2017, 2:10pm **_

Wendy was in her office, going over some bills, when the doorbell rang. She cocked an ear, nodding when she heard Ellen scamper by.

The mink had accounted it a nine-day wonder that the Verrids had left without so much as a word, and pestered Wendy about it all Sunday afternoon. She urged Wendy to call the PA number that 'Patrick' had given her, which she did. The call went directly to voice mail (not surprising the vixen, since she had turned off all the PAs she took from the corpses). Ellen had left a tactful request for them to call back.

Her keen hearing picking up the sound of a male voice, she closed her eyes and concentrated. She'd heard that voice before …

The sheriff.

_Shit._

Stiffly, she closed her files and got up, left her office and trotted out toward the Foyer. Sheriff Marten was exchanging information with Ellen, who spotted Wendy and motioned her over, her face in a somber attitude. "Hey, Boss-Lady, the sheriff's got some news that I don't like even a little bit."

"Oh?" She cast an inquisitive gaze at the sturdy officer.

"Yes'm. A hunter found an abandoned car early this morning and called it in. It was on private property and … well, you don't care about that. Anyways, when the police ran the plates, it turned out the owner is one o' them Knights what was raisin' such a ruckus last year."

Wendy made her eyes huge, straining to detect any change in the sheriff's emotional state. "Holy shit!"

"Yeah, that was my thought, too."

"Where was it?"

"Oh, 'bout forty klicks northeast, 'tween Waterbury and Middlesex."

"… Forty … _forty_ klicks? Okay. That's not real close. That's not even in this county. How'd you find out about it?"

"Oh, ma'am … uh, 'scuse me, _Wendy_, any time something turns up that concerns that bunch o' loonies, it gets broadcast pretty damn quick, let me tell yeh. The report was waitin' on me when I come in from lunch. I knew yeh'd been up to yeh neck with trouble from those jerks, an' figured yeh ought to know."

"Wow." She shook her head. "Are they …" Frowning, she collected her thoughts and came up with what she thought would be a good, reasonable question. "Are they sure it wasn't abandoned earlier? Like, from before, when so many of them were here?"

"Nah. Engine was still warm when the guy found it."

That gave her an unpleasant chill. She'd not felt anyone around when she left the vehicle, but that didn't mean someone couldn't have spotted her. It was a closer scrape than she'd known. She gave a little shiver and breathed, "Wow."

"I know how yeh feel." He opened a folder he'd been holding in one paw and pulled out a picture. "This is a mug shot of th' owner. If yeh see him around, please give …"

Ellen had caught sight of the fur's likeness, pressed a fist against her muzzle, and gasped.

"What? Miss Ellen, have yeh seen him?"

Wordlessly, she took the photo from Sheriff Marten, gazed at it for a couple of seconds, then passed it to Wendy, who did an excellent job of looking completely floored, whispering, "That's Bradley Verrid."

"So yeh _have_ seen him!"

She looked up at the sheriff, giving him her very best haunted, hollow-eyed stare. "He … he was a guest … here … last night."

"_**Shit!**_" He swallowed. "Uh, sorry. Yeh _dead sure_ that's him?"

Both women looked at the photo, then at each other, then nodded. Ellen said, "Positive. That's Bradl …" She looked at the name in the picture. "Stefan Surinkx? What the hell?"

"Yeah. He's not _just_ with the Knights of Pure Crap. He's also a member of some terrorist bunch called the Trenchant Fur Network."

Very carefully, the vixen drew her brows together just the right amount to look worried and puzzled at the same time. "Who?"

"The Trenchant Furs. I've heard of 'em. Bad boys, that outfit. That's why I came out, personal, ta give yeh the news."

_That's also why,_ thought Wendy, _I had no real compunction about killing the lot of them. _But she kept that tidbit to herself. Instead, she shook Sheriff Marten's paw and thanked him profusely for his concern. Ellen asked whether they couldn't maybe have a deputy drive by now and then, and the sheriff agreed that was a fine idea.

"Yeh girls have any weapons around?"

Ellen cast Wendy a sidelong glance and laid a paw on her arm. "Um …"

Through the physical link, Wendy heard, _[ [ there's you, but I don't think we need to tell __him__ that ] ]_ The vixen kept her muzzle even and offered, "We've got a .308 Magnum deer rifle with a scope, and a semi-auto shotgun, and an AR-15, and a few paw-guns, mostly in 9mm, but a couple chambered for .45ACP. And I have a really old revolver that I think belonged to my uncle, but I've never fired it. I don't even know if it works."

Ellen looked startled. "I didn't know you had all those guns! I thought you didn't _**like**_ guns."

"I don't. Karl did. But … yeah, I keep 'em locked up in a … a little closet thing in one of the unused suites." It was actually half a dozen of the secret passages, but she didn't know whether Sheriff Marten had any knowledge of those, and her association with Karl had taught her, among many other things, to play her cards very close to her chest. "And we've got eight or ten mags for each, and maybe three thousand rounds of every caliber."

"You packin'?"

"Not at the moment."

"Ma'am … um, Wendy, you really oughta think about carryin'. If one of the Knights picked this place …"

"There were two of them," Wendy stated.

"… Beg pardon?"

"Besides Bradley – um, that is, that Surinkx fellow – there was another one. Called himself Patrick, but now I don't know."

"An' they were together?"

"Yeah. A gay couple."

"Gay? Him? Not a chance."

"Really? Why would they lie about something like that?"

"I couldn't say. Mebbe he thought yeh'd figger 'em to be harmless or somethin'. But accordin' to his file, this Stefan guy is a real ladies' fur." He made a note on his legal pad and asked, "So there were two of them?"

Ellen answered, faintly, "Yeah. Two. Damn."

"Well, anyways, like I was sayin', them pickin' this place to stay, yeh can bet it was no accident. They'll be back."

Wendy gulped and stuttered, "You r-r-really think so?"

His frown deepened. "Why would yeh even _ask_ that? They were tryin' ta kill yeh before, remember? I'm surprised he didn't try it when he was here."

Wendy chewed on her lower lip. "Maybe … maybe he was just scouting us out?"

"Eh. Maybe. That don't strike me as the way his kind works, though." His attention shifted between the femmes for a moment, then he said, "Would it be okay if we moved this to somewhere we could sit down? I've got some more questions and it might take a while."

##

_** 10:20pm **_

The fire crackled. Ellen, uncharacteristically quiet this evening, had recently added a couple of pine knots, just to get the flames enthusiastic again, and the extra rosin kept bursting in tiny explosions. The two femmes sat together on the long couch, which they had pulled over to face the mantle. Wendy was working her way through a bottle of very old scotch. Ellen sipped a cup of cider while cradling the vixen with one arm. They'd been sitting like that for a while when Wendy finally sighed. "Go ahead and ask. I know you want to."

Ellen gave her an unreadable look, stared back at the fire, and downed the rest of her cider. "Okay. Since you brought it up. How'd you do it?"

"Can you be more specific?"

"Heh. Specific." A ghost of a grin flitted across her muzzle. "Okay, let's just pick one. How'd you get their car all the way out to Waterbury?"

Wendy skipped right by her respect for how smoothly Ellen had figured everything out. The girl was smart and highly observant, and she knew all about Wendy's 'perks'. There was _less_ than no point in dissembling. "I drove it there."

"… Very well. How'd you get yourself back to the Inn?"

"Ran."

"… You ran."

"I did."

"Forty kilometers? In sub-zero weather, through all that snow?"

"I'm light. And I can run pretty fast when I need to."

"So it would seem." She held her mug over in front of Wendy, who obliged by pouring some of the scotch into it. Ellen took a tentative sip and gave a little smile. "That stuff ain't bad."

"Not bad?" Wendy snorted. "There are many aficionados who would positively _faint_ to hear this most excellent beverage maligned by such faint praise."

"Yeah, well, myself, I like Corona." She sipped in silence for a minute. "Did you kill them?"

"Yes."

"… Just like that?"

"_**They**_ would have killed _**you**_. They were here to kidnap me, and they planned on leaving no witnesses. When Sheriff Marten said they were a bad bunch, he wasn't just blowing bullshit bubbles."

"Son of a bitch." She stared off at the wall for a few moments before turning her attention back to her lover. "So what happens when their … the other members of their 'cell' or whatever find out they've disappeared?"

Wendy held her gaze for a moment, then looked over at the fire. She decided on a very slight stretch of the truth. "That may not be a problem. At least not for a while."

"Do I want to know why not?"

Another sigh. "I can tell that you _want_ to know, or at least you think you do." She resettled herself so that she could more easily face the younger femme. "The rest of their group showed up around oh-dark-thirty."

Ellen's eyes got fractionally larger and she drew a long breath. "Really."

"Yep."

"And how many …"

"Seven. Counting Surinkx and van Jentz."

"… van … oh. Patrick?"

"Yeah. They were a team of assassins."

"… Assassins."

"Yeah."

"And you killed them."

Wendy nodded once, slowly, and sipped her whisky, staring into the fire.

"All seven?"

"All seven."

"Damn, Wendy!"

Turning her glance on the mink, she said, "I did what I had to do." Her voice started out low and even, but quickly gained emotional steam. "You've _**no idea**_ what sorts of evil … they were just … you'd rather I sit back and let them have their way with us? Do you know what they had in mind for _**you?**_ The sorts of soul-shattering tortures they thought of as _fun?"_ She dropped her eyes. "The quick deaths I gave them were much, _much_ better than they deserved."

"Well … yeah, okay, but … _**seven?**_ And … and none of us knew anything about it, and … hell, I knew you were dangerous and shit, but … and you did it all in a few hours, and … damn."

The weird mix of indecision, fear, and admiration that Wendy could feel coming off of Ellen made a thick cloud around the pair. She tossed off the rest of her drink and set the glass down, then took Ellen's paws in hers. _[ [ Please believe me when I say that I didn't have a choice. They tracked me here, and were planning murder. I couldn't very well go to the Sheriff and tell him I had telepathically determined that two of my guests had evil intentions. That would __not__ have worked well. ] ]_

"No. No, I suppose it wouldn't. Lots of uncomfortable questions."

"Yes, lots."

Ellen sat in silence for a bit, then asked, "How'd the other ones get here?"

"By car I would assume, although I never found one."

"Huh. So there's another abandoned vehicle around here somewhere."

"That'd be my guess."

She took another sip. "Where are they?"

"They? You mean the bodies?"

"Yeah."

"It's probably best that you not know. You already know more than I'm comfortable with, but it couldn't really be helped. You're too damned smart for your own good."

That won her a smirk. "I thought you found intelligence sexy."

"I do. It's _damned_ sexy. It can also be a royal pain in the ass."

##

_** 11:55pm **_

Ellen had elected to sleep in her own room, and Wendy could hardly blame her. They both had a great deal to think about, especially the vixen, things turning over in her mind while she failed to achieve sleep.

_They tried the subtle approach this time. But it didn't work, and somefur back up the terrorist food chain is gonna figure that out sooner or later. Next time … they might decide on a more direct approach. If there __**is**__ a next time. If they do, I may not be able to protect her._

The idea that she might have any trouble protecting herself never crossed her mind. Her experiences in Libya had taught her much. Lying on her back in her dark room, staring at nothing, she damped out the emotional turmoil coming from next door, and tried to stanch her own growing frustration.

_I can't really get away from it. There are always more terrorists. And I'm a target. A big one. Might as well just paint a bull's eye on the Inn. _

Turning on her side and tucking the pillow firmly into the crook of her shoulder, she bit her lip and refused to cry.

_Is this … I wonder … is this what Karl felt like? Are these the sorts of things he worried about? He loved me. I love Ellen. I think. Never really examined those feelings all that closely. I like her a lot, and she's really sweet, and she's hella great in the sack. But … love? That deep, mind-blowing … I mean, when I compare it with what Karl and I shared … maybe? I don't know. Maybe not. Although I guess I __am__ responsible for keeping her safe from harm now._

A tear dripped off the end of her muzzle, landing on the linen with a tiny sound. She furiously wiped at her face and turned on her other side.

_But how can I do that? How can I be sure of her safety? How can I __**know**__ she'll be okay? I can't always be with her._

The same refrains kept playing on a loop in her mind. It was a long, long time before sleep claimed her.

##


	22. Chapter 6 Distance C

_**Chapter Six – Distance – Part C**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Tuesday, December 19, 2017, 6:00pm **_

Matt Sinclair's PA tootled at him in a familiar tune. Absently, he picked it up and said, "Hey, Honey."

"You in the mood for any supper?"

He glanced over at one of the clocks spaced around his studio. "Hm."

"Lost track of time again, didn't you?"

"Seems like it."

"Did you have any lunch? I didn't see you."

"No, I, uh … I'm afraid I didn't."

"You still working on that 'private piece' you mentioned?"

"… Yyyyyyeah, kinda."

Her sigh was just barely audible. "Can you break for a bite? I know how that sort of thing takes it out of you, and you need to keep up your strength."

"… Okay. I'll be up in a minute."

"Promise?"

"Yes, Dear One, I promise."

"Okay, then, I'll see you _very soon_. And if I don't …"

"You'll remind me, I know.

"Good. Love you."

"Love you, too."

He turned back to the sketch he had going on a large canvas. This one wasn't a commission piece. This one … he simply had to paint.

Matt's work divided neatly into two categories: those he could show to other furs, and those he kept hidden in his 'basement'. Currently, he had eighty-two finished paintings and one multimedia project that no one else would ever see. Several years back he had shared stills of two of the milder examples, one to a gallery owner and the other to an art critic, both friends of his. The gallery owner had nightmares for months afterward, and the critic was so deeply affected that he took a year's sabbatical and didn't do any writing the entire time. Matt later learned that he engaged the services of a noted psychiatrist to help him combat the resulting depression.

Diedra had happened upon one such painting very early in their relationship, before she knew anything about his past or his 'special abilities'. Fortunately it had been unfinished, and so it only frightened her out of her wits. Ever since, she danced lightly around the subject of those pieces that he painted to get something off his chest. The frequency of this happenstance had diminished markedly over the years, and a few months had grown old and died since the last one. But she knew this one was aggravating him, and had been since shortly after they returned from New York.

As he studied the sketch, a stick of graphite in one paw, Matt tried again to define for himself exactly what it was that he wanted the painting to say. Thus far, the picture involved two furs: Karl and Wendy Luscus. They were in what might be referred to as dire straits, but the exact nature of their trouble was still an unknown, and that bothered Matt deeply. He knew that there were things that he 'knew' that he had no idea of just _**how**_ he knew. This was one of those. They had always worked themselves out before, and he felt this would, too, but in the mean time it ate at him like termites in felled pine.

With a disgusted sigh, he tossed the graphite stick into a tray beside the easel and teleported up to their bathroom to wash his paws for supper.

##

_** Thursday, December 21, 2017,mid-morning **_

"Wendy, _**please**_ don't do this!"

"I don't want to, Ellen, really." She studied the young mink's tear-streaked face, stroking the silky, white headfur and lamenting the fact that her life seemed to make a habit of winding up in a cluster-fuck … _every – **single – time**_. "I wish there were some other way. I just don't have a choice. Not anymore. Not with the TFN on my tail." Pulling the girl close, she gave her a tight hug, which was tearfully returned. "You've got my number. Don't be afraid to call now and then." She had secured one of those really basic pre-paid (and essentially untraceable) PA's for just that reason.

Ellen had finally understood exactly what it meant for Wendy to be a "furson of interest" with the Trenchant Furs, and how Karl had dealt with them before. The vixen had no reason to think – especially given recent events – that they would treat her any differently. If their resources were even half as extensive and well-funded as Karl made them out to be, the Sheriff's interrogation report would be in their database inside a week. She couldn't be at Ash Creek when that happened.

Ellen's forehead received a soft kiss. "Ash Creek is yours now." It had been a simple matter to deed the place over to Ellen. Wendy's name was on the document after all, and the dissolution of the firm that had been acting as executor meant there was no one around to enforce the stipulations of her uncle's will. She could do with the property as she pleased, and it pleased her to give it to Ellen. "I know you'll take good care of it for me. And who knows? I might drop in now and then."

"Don't you _dare_ make promises you can't keep!" Of course, Ellen maintained that she didn't _want_ the Inn. She _wanted_ Wendy. She was ready, then and there, to drop everything and travel with the vixen, but Wendy had explained why that wouldn't work and why she needed to stay here. A strong stubborn streak was one of Ellen's defining features, but even so she could comprehend easily why it would be physically hazardous to be around her former employer. She, after all, could _**not**_ regenerate damage at a hellish rate, or 'see' in the dark, or move faster than any other two-legged creature on the planet, or hit anything she aimed at.

"By this time tomorrow," stated the vixen matter-of-factly, "everyone in the county is going to know I'm A.W.O.L. Quinn can make sure of it if anyone can. I'm gonna drop in on Sheriff Marten briefly and then say goodbye to Cinnamon and Siobhan … and then I'm heading west."

She'd spent a great deal of time ruminating over her options. There weren't many, since her resources, though considerable, weren't a patch on what Karl'd had to work with. She could change her name, drop out of sight, maybe get a job in some remote spot out west. Any restaurant worth the name would be happy to have her on board. Since she was taking better than thirty kilos of rare gold coins with her – and close to a hundred grand in the folding green version of cash – she _could_ just buy herself a place off the grid and vanish for good. That plan did not appeal, though, her spirit being much too gregarious for extended isolation. She might also, distasteful though it was, get a job with Rajid's group. That was sort of a last resort. Karl had cautioned her about letting the mongoose know of her Augments. In that same vein, she could become a mercenary. Or a bounty hunter. Or she could have a whole new background fabricated, enter the police academy, and go into law enforcement. _Wouldn't that be a hoot! _She wasn't really serious about any of those ideas, but they were fun to think about.

However, none of those reasons filled in the blank for why she was heading west. No, she had a different motivation: her last known address for Matt Sinclair was in California. She'd lost the number that Rajid had given her – and the PA it was stored in – and couldn't remember it. Nor had she asked him for it again, since she really didn't want that astute agent to know that she was trying to contact Sinclair. He would be curious as to why she needed to talk to him again, and would probably get irritatingly nosy. And Mr. Sinclair obviously thought highly of his privacy: she couldn't find any sort of contact information for him on-line, and she certainly didn't feel like leaving her data on his public chat forum where anyfur – including the TFN – could see it.

Nevertheless the compulsion was a solid one. Because … if there was one fur on the planet who could understand her position, who could sympathize and maybe offer some sound advice on how to conduct her weird-ass life in the future … Matt was that fur.

##

_** Friday, December 22, 2017, around noon **_

Diedra cocked her head at Matt as they walked toward the dining room. "So … you're satisfied with how the painting turned out?"

"I am, very, but it just opens up that question, you know?"

"You're right, it does."

"I think we should go visit them."

"Visit?"

"Visit."

"… Do you even know where they are?"

"I'll bet they're at that mansion she inherited. I mean, where else would they be, right? She said that was where she had to live if she wanted to keep the place, and she's pretty well invested in the B&B business she has going. And after what he went through, I can't see Gulo wanting to do anything but rest for a few months."

She nodded. "And how. But …" A slight frown crinkled her features. "Are you sure they're together yet? I know she intended to go get him from the ISB, but what if they didn't feel like letting him go?"

"Well … Okay." He ticked off points on his fingers. "Wendy was the very picture of determination when she left. I talked with Rajid about her a few times, and he is, _trust_ me, scared of her. Or at least in awe of her. Gulo's record was expunged, so there's no …"

"What?"

"Ah … he, uh, liberated a quantity of money from one of their slush funds when he left. Remember?"

"Yeah, you said that before. So?"

"They used that as an excuse to transfer him to their custody when they removed him from Cedars, but, see, he'd already paid it all back double by then. And then … okay, for a long time they thought he was KIA, right?"

"Um, yeah. You thought so, too."

"So when he turned up in Boston, it really kicked the chair out from under the ISB. A bunch of 'em wanted him taken out. They fabricated a slew of charges against him just in case."

"Oh. I _didn't_ know _that_."

"I just found out the … hm, next-to-last time I talked with Rajid. But they dropped all the charges after … okay, you know Capra's team kept tabs on him for a while after they found him?"

"Right."

"Yeah, they discovered that he'd changed a lot. He's a Christian now and has chucked the 'revenge' business."

"Which is what Wendy said. I already know all about that."

"Exactly. So now there's no legal impediment if he wants to leave. And if she showed up and demanded her husband, I can't really see Rajid turning her away."

"But … didn't you say that, the last you knew, his memory was still fried?"

"Eh. Sort of fried; his emotional responses were still pretty unpredictable. But things were improving, according to Capra. And given Wendy's, um, 'awesome mental powers', she ought to be able to sort him out." He chuckled and gave his head a shake. "As much in love as they are, I don't think she'll give up on him, even if he is kinda fractured." He patted her paw. "The only people I've ever known who are as loopy about each other as they are, would be us."

That earned him one of her brilliant smiles. "Well … okay, then … we ought to give them a heads-up before we get there, don't you think?"

"Nah. We'll surprise 'em. I'll spring for … uh, dinner, I guess, at Georgio's in Manhattan. I can get us all there in two jumps without damaging anything. It'll be a nice early Christmas present for them."

"Hm. Tell you what … we'll pop over to New Haven, and I'll call Wendy from there. Then, if she needs a few minutes to finish up something we'd be interrupting, she'll have it."

"Okay, party pooper." He held up his paws in a defensive posture when she got a stormy expression at his quip. "But you're right! You're right! It makes sense. We'll do it your way."

"Yes, we will."

##

_** 3:35pm, New Haven, VT **_

Matt eased up to the head of the alley and peeked out into the street. It wasn't exactly deserted, but neither could it be called busy. The meter-and-a-half-tall snow drifts probably had a lot to do with that. He motioned for Diedra, who moved up beside him to survey the little town. "Quaint."

"Isn't that real-estate-ese for 'run-down'?"

"Can be."

"I would have termed it 'charming'."

"That translates to 'cramped'."

"Ah, well. In either case, we're here." He offered his arm. "Stroll with me?"

Smiling, she appropriated the limb. "Every chance I get."

They walked along, pointing out the various decorations. The townsfolk were certainly aware of the approaching holiday, and had every building, lamp post, and fire hydrant decked out in red, green, or white.

Stopping in at the first convenience store (read: the only convenience store) in town, Matt got the clerk's attention and asked, "Do you know of Ash Creek Inn?"

The thin canine femme gave them a toothy grin. "Sure do! That's Miss Wendy's outfit."

He allowed himself a smirk at Diedra's expense. She ignored him and asked, "Would you happen to have the phone number for the Inn?"

Squinching her face up in thought, she said, "Hold on," and disappeared through a narrow door at the far end of the counter. Half a minute later she came back with an older, male version of herself. He walked over and asked, "You folks need Miss Wendy's numbah?"

"Yes, sir," responded Diedra, "if it's no trouble."

"Not a bit of it!" He passed her a piece of paper. "Get folks comin' through right reg'lar wantin' ta know how ta call an' get a reservation."

"Thanks!" She read the number, passed it to Matt, who folded it and slipped it into a pocket, and pulled out her PA. They wandered over toward the door while the phone rang.

"Ash Creek Inn." The voice wasn't Wendy's, and sounded young … and slightly depressed.

"Hello! Is Wendy there?"

A few moments of silence preceded a short sigh. "No, I'm afraid not. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Oh. I'd really like to speak with her. Do you know when she'll be back?"

The pause was longer, and rather more pregnant, and terminated by a choked sob. "No."

Matt, who could hear both ends of the conversation, was giving her a concerned look. Diedra persisted. "Not at all? Is she on vacation?"

"M-ma'am, I really do-don't know where she went. Is there s-something I can help you w-with?" It was obvious that she was holding onto her composure by its frayed edges.

"Um … yes. We'd like to, ah, come look at the Inn. Can you give us directions?"

She did, in a few short sentences, and then Diedra put her PA away. The look she gave Matt spoke volumes.

He nodded, and said, "Something's up." They left the store and walked east, shortly coming in sight of North Street. Matt glanced around and, seeing no one, took Diedra's paw. They vanished.

##

When they arrived at the edge of the Meadow, they both took a moment to admire the huge house. Diedra said, "Classic lodge architecture. I bet if he'd had built it out west, it would have been made of logs."

"Could be. She's done a great job with the place." They flickered; and then they were standing on the porch. Diedra walked toward the southwest corner, examining the Folly. Matt rang the doorbell, and his wife hurried back over. Nearly a minute passed before they heard someone come into the Foyer. A small panel slid open and dark eyes examined them. Then the big door opened.

Ellen gave them an abbreviated bow. "Welcome to Ash Creek Inn. Won't you come inside?"

"Thank you," Matt intoned as they moved in. Diedra, for one, was glad to get out of the cold. When the door was closed, he said, "I'm Matt Sinclair, and this is my wife, Diedra. We're friends of Wendy's."

A momentary frown came to rest on Ellen's brow, but then she brightened. "Oh! You're that couple in California! Uh, that is, you _live_ in California. Obviously you're _here_ now. Yeah, she told me about you. Some, anyhow." She gave Matt a narrow look and shrugged. "Come on into the library." She stuck out a paw. "I'm Ellen Vison, by the way."

Inside five minutes they were ensconced in comfortable chairs and holding glasses of some truly excellent brandy. Ellen leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and opined, "You didn't really come here to look at the Inn, did you?"

The couple glanced at each other, Matt with a quirked eyebrow, Diedra with a hint of half a smile. He said, "No. But we wanted to find out what was up with Wendy."

"And Karl," added Diedra.

"Right. Karl, too."

Ellen sat forward, giving them a totally nonplussed look. "Karl? Karl Luscus?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah. Her husband."

The mink's face became stone. "Former husband, you mean."

The glance that passed between the couple then was ripe with concern and distress. "What do you mean," demanded Diedra, "by 'former' husband?"

"He ditched her." Ellen's pretty muzzle twisted into an odd amalgam of condemnation and vindication. "Said he never wanted to see her again. Said he hoped she would just forget him and get on with her life."

"… Oh, you have _**got**_ to be kidding!"

"I'm as serious as a federal subpoena. He gave her the old heave-ho. Wouldn't even allow those ISB guys to let her in to talk to him." She used an index finger to make quick circular motions beside her head. "He's coo-ca-choo. Flipped out. Fruit loops. The wheel's turning but the hamster's dead. A few shingles short of a roof." She paused for emphasis and nodded at them. "His cheese done slid off his cracker, to quote one of my favorite films."

Matt stared off at nothing for a moment. "I knew he was damaged, but I didn't think it was as bad as all that."

Diedra leaned forward. "She must have taken that really hard."

A short bitter laugh answered that statement. "And how. It almost killed her. An' I could'a killed _**him**_ for doin' that to her."

Never slow on the uptake, Matt derived the situation between this mink and Wendy in a couple of heartbeats. "You two … you were an item, weren't you?"

Ellen gave him a level stare and then a single nod.

Looking back and forth between her husband and their hostess a few times, Diedra played catch-up. "Oh. It's like that."

"Was like that," concluded Ellen with more than a hint of bitterness.

"… She left?"

"Yeah."

"Wait … wait. She left you?"

"Yeah."

Diedra's exotically pretty features twisted up almost comically. "But … hang on … is she going back to Karl now?"

"No. She gave up on … well, no. She didn't. He did. He gave up on her, and she didn't have a choice in the matter."

"Then color me confused. Why'd she leave you?"

"For my …" and here she made tic-marks in the air, "own good."

Both her guests just blinked at her.

"She's worried for my safety. I think it's a load of horse shit, but there you are. She wouldn't let me come with her."

Matt stumbled through, "She … wouldn't let you go with her … where?"

"Out west somewhere. She wouldn't tell me. Said it would be safer for me if I didn't know. Again, horse shit."

The ambient confusion levels rose markedly. "But why on earth would she think you were in danger?"

Ellen sighed and rose, then walked over to the fire. She took the poker and stirred the coals, added a couple of sticks of firewood, and turned to face them. "Last Saturday we had some furs stay here as guests. That's not unusual. That's why we're in business." A small laugh burst its bonds and escaped. "Why _**I'm**_ in business, now. _She_ quit." Giving her head a shake, she continued, "Turns out two of them were assassins."

In chorus, the couple gasped, "Assassins!"

"Yeah. You know about her, uh, her … perks?"

Matt nodded dumbly.

"Right. She picked up on what they were here for. Oh, they were smooth. That smaller one, went by Patrick, I tell ya, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But they didn't fool her. So that night …" she drew a short breath, "… she took 'em out."

"… Took them out? You mean … killed them?"

"Yeah."

"Both of them?"

"Hah! Both. Five more showed up after midnight. She killed all seven of 'em."

Matt and Diedra sat up very straight and tossed significant glances back and forth for a bit. Finally Matt said, "Seven."

"Seven."

"She killed them all?"

"That's what she said. See, the Sheriff came by on Monday. They found the car Wendy used to get rid of 'em, an' traced it back to this guy, the bigger of the pair, called himself Bradley Verrid, but his real name was Stefan Surinkx. Big, bad dude with some outfit called the Trenchant Fur Network."

Matt's hackles spiked badly enough that Ellen noticed. She raised a brow and said, "You've heard of 'em, too, I take it?"

"Anyone who's dealt with terrorism _at __**all**_ has heard of them." He took Diedra's paw and turned back to Ellen. "Now I understand. If Wendy thinks the TFN is after her, she'll want as much anonymity as possible. And she'll want as much distance as she can get between herself and anyone she cares about."

"Yeah. That's pretty much what she said."

"And she went out west?"

"Again, that's what she said. Said she needed to talk to somebody."

"But she didn't say who?"

"Just that it was someone who would understand her 'peculiar circumstances' and would be able to give her some good advice."

Diedra's muzzle fell open. She got Matt's attention and pointed at him. "You! I bet she's trying to find you!"

"Me? But … no, wait … you might be right."

"I bet I am."

"But why didn't she just call me? She got my PA number."

Ellen offered, "She did mention that she lost it. See, she lost the PA she had before … before she went and got Karl back. From that monster that captured him."

"Gafah."

"Yeah, that was his name!"

Matt nodded. It was all coming together. "So, did she tell anyone she was leaving?"

"Hell, she told the whole county! Wanted to make damned sure that everyfur knew she wasn't here anymore. For my 'safety'." The bitterness was creeping back in.

"Miss Vison, she's probably right. Wendy can certainly take care of herself. She's demonstrated that beyond any doubt. But you don't have any of those 'perks' you mentioned, and that would make you a casualty pretty quickly in a fight with the TFN."

She crossed her arms and sank back into her chair, the very image of dejection. "You sound just like her."

"Then she has a good head on her shoulders."

"Matt," his wife got his attention, "how do you think Karl would react to that information?"

He considered that question for a bit and nodded to himself. "I know one way to find out."

**. . .**

**. . .**

**. . .**

**Here Ends Chapter Six**


	23. Chapter 7 Truth and Realization

Gone Wylde

by Clint McInnes

**_Chapter Seventy – Truth and Realization_**

##

**If you devote your life to seeking revenge, first dig two graves.**

_**-Confucius**_

##

_** Friday, December 22, 2017, 3:30pm **_

Paws stiffly clasped at his lower back, a fennec fox, who was beginning to show the first signs of grizzle in the fur around his eyes, stood before a large window, staring out into the heavy, falling slush of a late Chicago afternoon. Even from their current vantage point some four dozen stories above the street, the lowering sky masked any hint of the sun's location … as it had for the past three days. Dim, gray light that failed to reach into any of the city's corners didn't _spill_ across the buildings so much as it _slouched_ in their general direction, almost as if it was too tired, after such a long journey, to care whether or not it illuminated _anything_.

"I despise this place."

The fennec glanced to his left, from whence came that pronouncement. The jackal standing there seemed to hunch himself against the gelid precipitation on the other side of the glass, paws deep in the pockets of the overcoat he rarely removed. A mirthless grin crawling onto his muzzle, the fennec said, "As do I, Faruq, but here is where we must be for now."

Faruq, who happened to be a distant relation of the recently vanished and largely unlamented ruler of Libya, turned from the window in disgust. "This I know, Hamad. Or, at least, I accept that you think so."

"Kind of you." Hamad turned his gaze back to the frozen slop falling from the sky.

"What do you see out in that god-forsaken hell-soup?"

"What if I said that it is merely a direction to stare while we wait?"

Faruq vented a low grunt and moved over to stand beside the heat register near the door of their hotel room, mumbling under his breath. Hamad studied his reflection in the glass, thinking, _Cretin._

There was a light knock at the door, and the words, "Room Service," sifted through. Faruq jumped and then moved to open it, receiving the cart and the large platter on it with a hoot of appreciation.

Hamad gave a low snort. _He has the imagination of a toad. Nothing more than a useful idiot in our cause. _ Once the staff-fur had left, he came over to his compatriot and examined their food. The thought that rolled through his mind was, _Adequate._

They were but a few bites into their meal when a staccato of sharp taps sounded on the door. Faruq sprang to answer it, admitting a leopard and another jackal.

A frown bloomed on Hamad's face. "Walters? Why did you not call ahead to let us know you were back?"

The leopard wasted no time with pleasantries. "We were compromised."

Hamad rose evenly to his feet. "… What?"

"Someone knew our plans," he stated in his flat, upper-Midwest accent, pacing the length of the room and back, "far enough in advance to place a Special Forces team at her house."

The fork in Hamad's right paw slowly bent into a U-shape in his grip. "What do you mean by 'Special Forces'?"

"Eh. Black Ops. The Company. Hell, Force Recon for all I know. _**Some**_ kind of elite unit. That's the only explanation."

That statement raised the fox's hackles. "The only explanation for what?"

"They've disappeared."

The fork fell to the carpet with a light thump. "… Disappeared."

"Yes. And I'm almost positive they're dead."

"But … but … Surinkx said he had the place _secured!_ His surveillance is _**never**_ wrong!"

"Well it was wrong this time."

Hamad ground his teeth before asking, "They are _**all**_ gone? The whole cell? How is that possible?"

The other jackal answered, sourly, "Believe it."

"But … how?"

Walters said, "Mason got me a copy of the sheriff's report." He pulled an envelope from his coat and dropped it on the bed. "Nobody at the house knew anything had happened until the next day when van Jentz and Surinkx turned up missing. Even then, they didn't suspect, just thought they'd left early. The day after that – Monday, it was – the sheriff came by and told them about a car that had been found abandoned, and that it belonged to Surinkx. But _**he**_ didn't even know they'd _**been**_ at the house until _**she**_ told him."

"Wait … how did she …"

"He had a mug shot with him, and they recognized it. He was just giving her a heads-up because of their connections to the Knights." He flopped down beside the report and ran both paws through his headfur.

The other jackal said, "We pinged it – the car, I mean, the one they found – and it's ours. Found the other one, too, that the sheriff didn't know about. Had one of our guys go and pick it up. It was clean. You could tell by what was still there that they meant to come back for it, and … didn't. Weren't able to." He pulled a chair out from the desk and straddled it. "And that ain't all. Once we figured they were tappin' the lines, I got one of those disposable PA's and once we got a couple hundred klicks away I called 'em all."

Hamad didn't say anything, waiting for the ending he knew he wasn't going to like.

"They're all dead. Not just flippin' over to voice mail. There's no number there. Like the unit was destroyed. All of 'em."

"The sheriff came back," the leopard continued, "with a forensics team from the FIA local branch. They searched the place from … well, you know how they are. They don't miss anything. They didn't find _shit_ to show where there might have been a fight, but they did find a few hairs they couldn't explain. Turns out they came from two of the backup squad."

"How did …"

"FIA ran DNA tests on 'em. They were in the database." Looking up at Hamad with empty eyes, Walters added, "They found 'em inside the house. Our team got _**inside**_ the fuckin' _**house**_ before they got taken out. And no trace of a fight. It was a professional job; couldn't be anything else. One of the best I've ever heard of. I'd bet my life on it."

"Do you think the League of Assassins …"

"No. It wasn't them. They know better. _**Had**_ to be military, or one of the agencies. It just _**had**_ to be."

The effort of keeping his breathing under control was beginning to cause Hamad some problems. "Then … we must go after her again, only this time …"

"Hah. That's the cherry on top. She's gone."

"… What do you mean, 'gone'?"

"I mean vanished. Scrammed. Walked. Pulled a Caspar. She sold the – it's a B&B but she calls it an Inn – she sold the place to that mink that was working with her." He pulled out a small electronic notepad and tapped it a few times. "Vison. Ellen Vison. She's the legal owner now."

His voice almost too low to hear, Hamad responded, "And where, may I ask, is Gamma's wife?"

"Were you even listening? She's _**gone**_. You know she has access to at least some of Gamma's assets. She made a point of telling _everyone she knew_ that she was leaving, and then she left. Early this morning. Nobody knows where. But that's not the big problem."

Hamad's burning gaze didn't faze the other fur as the fennec ground out, "Oh? Then what is?"

"Hah. You _**weren't**_ listening." He leaned forward, staring hard at Hamad. "We're compromised. Someone is accessing our communications. That's why I didn't call you. I came here in person because we were the only ones left who knew your location, and we didn't want to give it away." He stood, jammed his paws into his pockets, and stared at the floor. "The only possible answer for why they were able to do what they did without us finding out is that they can tap our coms."

Hamad stalked over to the window, his fists clenched so hard that his clawtips pierced the skin of his palms. "Then we will find out who betrayed us. And we will kill him."

Several dozen streams of information ran screaming through his mind. He'd had Gamma in his paws. Incapacitated and vulnerable. The wolverine had been a shell of his former self, and Hamad could have taken his time in killing him. But, noooo! The big boss demanded that _**he**_ be the one to do him in, and Hamad was well aware of just how batshit crazy the old guy was. He had been somewhat content with that, knowing how good Gafah was at inflicting pain. But instead of just going ahead with it, instead of holding the public, three-day torture session, followed by a good old fashioned drawing and quartering, what had he done? Kept Gamma like a pet. Fed him just enough to keep him from dying. Put him on display as a sort of tribute to his 'power', as if it was Gafah who had captured the wolverine.

As if.

And then … then something truly horrible had happened, something that no one had entirely figured out yet, but much of the city got shot up, and a great many of Gafah's followers had died, and Gamma had disappeared.

The unalloyed gall of that situation had briefly threatened Hamad's already tenuous hold on sanity. To have his enemy in his grasp, and then have his revenge snatched away! It could not be borne. Thus the recent foray to collect his enemy's wife, even though Gamma himself was still off the radar, despite all their best efforts at locating him.

Spinning back around to face the other three, Hamad's barely-contained fury carried over in his words. "He will know pain such as has not been felt on this world. We will make him beg for _**Hell**_. And we will film it. And we will make sure our enemies see it. And then maybe they will not be so eager to volunteer as a mole in our ranks."

The others looked at each other and nodded. The leopard said, "Good plan."

"But first … first we must find this 'Wendy'." Unclenching his fists by sheer force of will, he turned and gave each of them a red glare. He desperately needed to kill something. "And to do that, I predict that we will need to visit the Inn again, this time without interference. I am sure Miss Vison can be … _persuaded_ to be helpful."

##

_** 4:15pm – north of Boston, MA **_

Hemanth Rajid glanced up with a frown when three light taps sounded on his office door. _Where is Gina? Why didn't she tell me there was a visitor?_ Any such deviation from protocol made him suspicious, doubly so of late. He eased his Sig Sauer 226 out of its holster and held it on his lap. "Come in."

The fur that strode in wasn't on his short list of expected visitors … or any of his other lists, for that matter. Matt walked over and took a seat in front of the mongoose. His expression didn't settle Rajid's stomach, either.

"Raj, we need to talk."

"I appreciate that you knocked first."

"Manners never go out of style." He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. "Where is Gulo?"

Some of the light of the situation crept through. "Ah. Karl. I imagine he's either in his rooms or at the gym." A slight crinkle of the area between his eyes preceded, "You haven't had a, ah, change of heart, have you?"

"No, but then apparently neither has Gulo. And Wendy tells me you won't let her see him."

"It is not up to me, Mr. Sinclair. That is Karl's decision, and he is quite firm in it."

"Why?"

Rajid fought back a snort. "You may as well ask why a tornado will wipe out one side of a street and leave the other side intact. What I know for sure is that he will not discuss the issue. At all."

"And he doesn't give you any reason for this?"

"Oh, he does. I feel that his reasoning is flawed, but he will not be moved."

"So what's he say?"

"That keeping Wendy away is for her own good. He will not give any further reasons, but he does consider that one sufficient."

"And Wendy couldn't persuade him at all? I'd think …"

"He would not talk to her. Ever."

Matt sat back and stroked the underside of his muzzle briefly. Glancing up at Rajid, he said, "So … Gulo's main deal is that he wants to keep Wendy safe, right?"

"Correct."

"Well … she's not."

Rajid blinked a few times before saying, "I beg your pardon?"

"The TFN is after her."

Matt found Rajid's reaction almost comical in its intensity, and would have laughed if the situation had been somewhat less dire. He spent a few minutes getting the ISB Director up to speed on the late activities of their least favorite terrorist group, after which the mongoose was visibly sweating.

"Mr. Sinclair, you should speak with Karl."

"The thought did cross my mind."

"You will need to be careful, though. He is extremely sensitive about the subject of his wife."

"Yeah, caught that."

"We should leave now."

"… 'We'?"

"While I realize that you could access our most secure areas without my knowledge or leave, I feel it would behoove all concerned if you were considered a functioning part of Karl's treatment, rather than an interloper."

That brought an answering nod. "Makes sense. Lead the way."

##

_** 4:45pm – Youngsville, PA **_

Leaving well before dawn, Wendy had driven south to Saratoga Springs, keeping to the back-roads, and picked up Highway 29, heading west toward Johnstown. Then she turned south again until she got to Interstate 88. She followed that until somewhere west of Elmira, NY, then took a few back-roads south (again) until she hit US Highway 6, which took her over to Youngsville, PA, and a small "Motel and Restaurant". An understated establishment in a sleepy little town: this looked like a good place to stop for the night. She'd been driving for ten and a half hours, the last two through increasingly heavy snow, breaking only to fill up one tank or empty another. Tomorrow she would find a local used-car dealer and swap her non-descript Honda for a non-descript something else. Or, rather, Stella d'Arc would be swapping cars. She'd decided she liked Stella and would keep her as a _nom de guerre_.

The room was adequate. Nothing at all to compare with the least offerings of the Inn, of course, but then they were only charging her $39.90 a night. The antiseptic used in the bathroom had some kind of overpowering perfume in it, which led her to suspect that regular cleanings perhaps weren't all that regular. But the bed didn't have lumps and the pillows were relatively soft and there wasn't any mildew around the tub. Stella was satisfied.

A quick shower and some fresh clothes later, she trudged, head down to keep the snow out of her face, across the parking lot to the eatery, arriving just behind a large canine of questionable breed. He didn't seem to notice her; he didn't slow or offer to hold the door. Not that she minded, exactly, but Karl had spoiled her in that respect. Sighing, she caught the gently-closing portal and followed him inside.

The restaurant décor was seaside-rustic-lite with a generous helping of tacky, and rather dark in a somber sort of way. But the gray feline femme who met her and gave her a list of the day's specials was pleasant and efficient, seating her immediately. The big canine had parked himself in the booth behind her.

Something was making her empathic shield itch; something … disagreeable … that scratched around the edges. Hunching her shoulders slightly, she cranked up the power until the itch quieted. She had no desire to get sucked into someone else's drama just now. There was plenty of that weighing her down already.

The menu turned out to be a pleasant surprise, mostly due to their extensive seafood offerings. She pored over the long, laminated card for a few minutes, finally settling on the grilled scallops with steamed veggies. It was with a slight trepidation that she made that choice, knowing how easily scallops could be over-cooked, but the meal, when it came, failed entirely to disappoint. The flesh was beautifully white and succulent, the marinade full-bodied but not too strong. She leaned back in rapt contemplation of the flavors, separating the savory and sweet spices in her mind, letting it roll around on her tongue while identifying the lime zest and the bergamot, the cracked pepper and the very slight hint of nutmeg. _This is heavenly! I'll have to see if I can talk the chef out of the recipe. It would be a big hit at the …_

Her eyes opened, then blinked once, deliberately.

… _at the Inn._

Her knife clattered quietly on the faux-wood table top as she came smartly back to earth. There would be no more gourmet cooking for her, at least from a professional standpoint. Certainly not soon. Perhaps not ever.

The rest of the meal was hurriedly devoured, scraping past her palate almost unnoticed.

After getting the bill and leaving an appropriate number of dollars on the table, she scooted abruptly toward the open side of the booth, wanting nothing more than a long sleep to help her forget about the Inn and prepare her for another day of driving, when the top of her left kneecap ran hard into the end of a bolt that stuck down out of the table's cantilever support.

The pain was sudden, intense, and shocking, and she almost smacked her nose on the table as she doubled over, her paws going instantly to the spot of agony on her leg. Simultaneously, her concentration shattered, she dropped her shield …

… and froze.

Holding her hunched-over pose for several seconds while her overactive regenerative abilities dealt with the bruise on her knee, she listened, eyes narrowing dangerously. Lips curled up in a snarl that she had to bite back, her gaze bored holes in the flimsy wall between her and the canine occupant of the neighboring booth.

Half a minute later, she slid silently out of the restaurant and sprinted over to the motel, searching for Room 14, which turned out to be around in the back. The door was locked, as she knew it would be, but she tried it anyway before zipping down to her own room. _Need to get some tools! I think that small crowbar is in the trunk._ Sure enough it was there, and less than twenty seconds had passed before she was back at Room 14. The doors were old (the entire establishment was old) and fit the frames none too tightly. In three breaths she was inside and closing the door behind her.

This room was a mirror of the one she had taken. The small closet with the slatted door stood on her left, and she wasted no time in opening it.

The bunny girl inside – _Oh, God, she's a little kid!_ – was tightly bound, out cold, and very thin. Wendy had no difficulty slinging her over one shoulder. Thus burdened, she peeked through the blinds at the rear parking lot; it wouldn't do to have anyone see her carrying an unconscious child. Everything was quiet, the heavy snow effectively discouraging pedestrians. She knew that there was no direct view of this side of the motel from the restaurant where that ogre sat. Making up her mind, she eased the door open and ran down to her room, slipped inside, and laid the girl on the comforter. It was the work of seconds to cut her bonds, and Wendy spent a few minutes checking her over to make sure there were no immediately dangerous wounds. (There were a few scabbed cuts, plenty of bruises, and what looked like a cigarette burn on the side of her neck, but nothing currently bleeding.) Through all the manipulation, the girl had remained obstinately unconscious, leading the vixen to think she'd been drugged.

Oh, well. She scribbled a hasty note and laid it on the girl's thin chest, in case she woke up. Then she went back out.

##

Geoff Trekker finished his steak, knocked back his last beer, paid the bill, and walked out into the parking lot, pulling out a pack of Camel Long-Cut Unfiltered and shaking one into his palm. It took him about three minutes to suck down the necessary dose of nicotine, whereupon he tossed the butt into the bushes, turned up his collar, and headed back to his room. His stomach was full, his lungs appeased, but his appetite for another addiction was just hitting its stride. Maybe tonight he'd show her the _**real**_ high.

He entered the room, carefully bolting the door behind him, and stomped over to the closet. "Hey, baby, I'm back. Miss me?" He threw open the door …

##

The next conscious thought Geoff had was, "Damn, my head hurts!" When he finally managed to pull his eyes open, he tried to reach up and rub his scalp, but his arms wouldn't cooperate. Then he realized was that he was cold, and that was because he was naked and lying in the tub. He was having a lot of trouble putting the situation together in his head. Why couldn't he raise his arms? And why were his legs all bent? And why …

Wait a minute …

"Ah, back among the living, I see."

Craning his head to the side, he looked over his shoulder. A vixen stood beside the tub. "Who … who th' hell 'r' you?"

"That really doesn't matter. You wouldn't have the opportunity to use my name even if you knew it."

He had to mull that one over a bit. "Wha – wha's goin' on? Why'm I tied up?"

"You had the rope already. Figured I ought to use it."

He got a sudden chill. "Where am I?"

"You're in your motel room, which also happens to be the room where they'll find your body tomorrow."

"… What?"

"You know," she continued, conversationally, "the first time that Karl told me about killing a TFN operative out of paw, I thought he'd gone nuts. How could he do that, you know? Just a cold-blooded murder, right?"

"… Karl?" This conversation was having a really hard time penetrating his skull. But then, said skull had received a monumental whack, so it wasn't that surprising.

"But now … now, Mr. Trekker, I know how he felt. I know _**exactly**_ how he felt." She eased herself down to perch on the edge of the tub. "He said something to me one time to the effect that he thought of killing scum like you as pest control. I'll have to say, I agree. Although roaches, while annoying, have no ill intent. They're only roaches, and they do what evolution programmed them to do. But you … you're just plain evil."

Some of the haze was beginning to lift. "You … you ain't'a kill me! You ain't!"

"Oh, yes. That I am."

"But … but …"

"What's her name, Mr. Trekker?"

"… Huh?"

"The girl. The little girl you tortured. The little girl you were intending to rape and murder tonight. What's her name?"

That got his attention. "I ain't tortured nobody!"

"_**That**_ is a lie."

He drew a deep breath and opened his mouth to yell, when the vixen's arm came sizzling around and drove something hard up through the underside of his jaw, through his tongue, and out the top of his muzzle. The pain was starkly indescribable; his eyes bugged and watered, suddenly blind, and he thrashed madly, but nothing he could do would allow him to open his mouth again.

"Can't have you making a fuss, now can we? And I'd rather not use that sedative on you. I don't know how powerful it is. After all, you didn't label the concentration, did you?"

His face was an inferno of agony. Blood sprayed the side of the tub with each breath. Regular whimpers made it past his flews.

"Besides, I want you fully conscious when you die. And we'll just leave that nice handle in place in your face. I think it really adds something to your looks." She had rummaged around earlier and found a feather duster with a wooden handle, then snapped the business end off, leaving a sharp point. It pinned his muzzle shut quite effectively.

"Back to the girl. You didn't tell me her name, and now you can't. Guess I'll have to wait until she wakes up." She leaned forward. "At least she'll get the _**chance**_ to wake up. Not like the others, though, huh? How many? Eight? Nine? I couldn't really tell. You've been busy."

Eyes glazed in pain, he was only vaguely aware of what she said.

"Okay, well, I guess your usefulness has ended. Time for you to check out." She took an object from her pocket. "Karl showed me once how to kill someone with an ink pen. I thought it was crazy, super-spy stuff at the time. Never thought I'd have an occasion to use it. Silly me." And she leaned over the tub and made a short, sharp jab. Geoff Trekker stopped moving.

Wendy spent the next hour and a half cleaning the room _**very**_ thoroughly.

##

_** 4:55pm **_

After his fifth pat-down in as many minutes, Matt was beginning to be a bit put out with the ISB's security measures. Looking over at his guide, he said, "Would it do any good at all to tell them that making sure I don't have a weapon on me doesn't mean I _don't_, in fact, _have_ a weapon on me?"

"That would only serve to complicate things, as I am sure you are aware. Even I, the Regional Director, must follow protocol. That means you do, too."

Matt's sigh echoed back down the corridor. "It's a good job Diedra elected not to come. She'd have given more than one of them a piece of her mind by now."

A few minutes later they entered a large room that Matt immediately recognized as a training area for various fighting techniques. He and Rajid stopped by the door and watched.

Karl was currently facing four opponents, working as pairs, and it was instantly obvious that everyone on the floor was an expert. The action was so blindingly fast that only another expert could follow it. So Matt leaned against the wall with an appreciative smirk on his muzzle.

There was, it seemed, a green team and a red team; at least that's what Matt had to go off of, given the colors of their clothes. They had just finished a mad, whirling dance of staves and blades and were all (except Karl) breathing hard. But the respite lasted only about twenty seconds, and the teams commenced their next attack on a signal from the chief spotter. Green Guy A tried to sweep Karl's legs with his staff, but the wolverine's feet weren't where he thought they were. The staff was halted abruptly, snapped in half, then the half left on the floor got kicked into Green Guy A's shin at an appallingly high speed; he spun halfway around and collapsed, holding the leg with a grimace. Green Guy B, meanwhile, had taken a quick jab toward Karl's 'unprotected' flank with the spear he held. With impossible quickness, the spearhead was instead guided toward Red Guy C, who had to abort his chain attack to keep his face un-split. Karl then grabbed the spear about halfway along its length, pulled Green Guy B in for a tiny fraction of a second until the ferret wisely let go, and then did something Matt couldn't quite make out. But a tenth of a second later Karl had reversed the spear and used the butt end to strike Red Guy D in the left shoulder, which made his sword stroke go very badly astray and sent him to the mat with a howl of pain. Then the haft of the spear whipped around and met the side of Green Guy B's head, knocking him tail over teeth, and the point ended up against Red Guy C's throat. He dropped the chain and held his arms out.

Karl looked over at the monitor. "Time?"

"Three point six."

"Eh. No worse, anyway."

"And I'm out of volunteers now."

Karl caught sight then of Rajid and Matt. He stilled for a second, then placed the spear carefully on the mat. "That doesn't appear to be a problem. I think we're done for the day anyway."

The monitor followed his gaze and straightened slightly. "Director! What can I do for you?"

Karl shook his head. "I'm pretty sure it's me he wants to see." He began walking toward the pair.

Matt sized him up as he approached. "You sure look a hell of a lot better than you did the last time I saw you."

The big fur stopped about two meters from them and crossed his arms. "I understand I owe you a rather large debt."

"Debt, schmebt. If you want to thank someone, thank Wendy."

Karl blinked his eyes rapidly a few times and gave his head a slight twitch. "Could we please not …" The import of Matt's statement blossomed in his mind; his arms fell to his sides. "Wait … what? Wendy? I … I don't understand."

"She did all the work. Found Raj. Pestered him until he uncovered where you were being held. Got my number. Contacted me. Convinced my wife to twist my arm until I agreed to do something. It was like Chinese water torture. She wouldn't give up. All I did was go where I was pointed and blink out with you." Matt chuckled inwardly at the incredulous stare Rajid was giving him. _That was fun, but we likely don't have time for really long explanations, and what Rajid doesn't know won't hurt Wendy._

Karl just gaped at him, muzzle slightly open, for a few seconds. "… What the hell are you talking about?"

"If I may?" put in Rajid. "Karl is not aware of …"

Matt cut him off. "I _**know**_ what he's not aware of, and it'd fill several books. I'm here to color out to the edges for him." Taking a square stance to the larger wolverine, Matt continued, "I believe time is of the essence here, so I'm not going to pussyfoot around with you. You're a big boy. You can handle the truth."

"I still don't …"

"Of course you don't. You were too busy catering your own little pity party."

"What?!"

"So just shut your muzzle, open your ears, and pay attention." Matt held up a finger. "To start with, you're still _stupid_ in love with Wendy."

"… How do you …"

"Number two: because you love her, you want to protect Wendy and you think the best way to do that is to keep her as far away from you as possible. Well, I'm here to tell you that isn't working out quite the way you thought it would."

"… How so?"

"I'll get to that. Number three: Wendy is crazy in love with you."

"You say that, but you don't know …"

"Stuff it. You're the one with the dodgy brain, not me. I know _**exactly**_ what I'm talking about. Just give it a rest and listen."

Karl didn't have a ready comeback, and directed his gaze to a suddenly interesting spot on the floor.

"Number four: you have a right bevy of enemies."

His face popped back up. "I know! That's why she …"

"Number five: certain of these enemies are fully aware of who she is and what she means to you."

As that sentence sank in, something moved around in the back of Karl's mind. Something about enemies and Wendy and dark plans and … and … _display cases?_ Was that right? Where did _**that**_ come from? It made no sense!

"Fortunately, Wendy seems to have more and better friends than she does enemies, and one of them warned her about the TFN."

Karl took a step forward, almost menacingly. "What _**about**_ the TFN?"

"They are hunting her."

His blood slowed to a crawl. "… You're lying."

"Why would I do that?"

"… I … Because … b – because you …"

"Because 'me', nothin'! _**You**_ just don't want it to be true."

"… I … I …"

"Look, Gulo, I don't have a dog in that fight. As far as I'm concerned, our slate is clean. Seeing what happened to you at the paws of that … that _**thing**_ that was running Libya … well … any debt you might have had was expunged, in my book, anyhow." He made sure Karl was looking him in the eye. "I'm not lying to you. I don't need to. I don't _want_ to. I have lots bigger fish to fry these days and if it were up to me, you and I wouldn't ever need to see each other again. Neither of us could be characterized as 'readily forgiving', and that usually doesn't make for good friendships. But we don't have to be friends to work toward a common cause. My main concern right now is for Wendy. She left the Inn early this morning after selling it to her assistant, and she has disappeared."

"Disappeared!"

Matt ignored that. "But you know the TFN as well as I do. Probably better, since you dismantled a good bit of it a few years back. And you know their tactics, their intelligence methods … their tenacity. After all, they caught _**you**_ didn't they?"

Karl's eyes widened fractionally.

"So I figure it's only a matter of time until they catch up with her and …"

"No! I can't … I – I've got to stop them! To find her!"

"Now you're beginning to see reason."

He got right up in Matt's face, his eyes wide in fear for the vixen. "_**You**_ can find her! Can't you? You're a teleporter, you can be in a thousand places in an hour!"

"Perhaps. But there are _millions_ of places she could be, and you know as well as I do the math for the probability of two moving particles in a given space ever colliding. We don't have the resources on the ground that the TFN does. Searching for her is not going to be easy, especially since she doesn't want to be found."

Karl's eyes glazed over.

_. . . . . . . especially since she doesn't want to be found . . . . . . ._

_. . . . . . . she doesn't want to be found . . . . . . ._

_. . . . . . . doesn't want to be . . . . . . ._

_. . . . . . . doesn't want . . . . . . ._

"Earth to Gulo!"

He snapped back. "What?"

"Took a little trip there. You firing on all cylinders?"

After a moment he shook his head. "Not even close. Sorry. Something you said …"

"… What about 'something I said'?"

"Sometimes … sometimes I get the feeling … well, it isn't so much a feeling as, maybe, the _suggestion_ of a _hint_ of a feeling … I think there might be more in there."

"… In there?"

"In my head."

"What, you mean memories?"

"No, I mean flower baskets. Yes! Memories." He closed his eyes and tilted his head slightly. "I can almost hear them. Like an echo dying away, or a half familiar voice in a huge crowd."

Matt gripped his forearm, not lightly. "That's gotta suck."

A few brief nods comprised Karl's answer.

"Can you hold it together enough to help look for Wendy?"

"Not a problem."

"Then let's go.

##

_** 7:21pm – Youngsville, PA **_

The woozy feeling was there again, along with the dull ache in the back of her head. That meant she was waking up.

That meant Hell would shortly be back in session, though she was too young to actually think of it that way.

Something was different, though. Something …

Her arms. Her arms were free.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she held very, very still. The last time he'd left her untied when she woke up … had been the worst. If only for the brief flash of hope she'd had that something might have …

"Well, hey, sweetie." A gentle paw grazed the fur along the top of her head as the low voice continued, "You're safe now. He's gone. He can't hurt you anymore."

That voice belonged to a _**femme!**_ Her eyes flew open and she stared wildly at Wendy for a few seconds before launching herself unsteadily into the vixen's arms.

Wendy, for her part, could barely keep her tears from pouring. Even with her shield open just the tiniest crack, the force of relief that exploded off the little doe was a nearly physical thing. She held the girl for the next twenty minutes while she cried in release and exhaustion.

When the girl could finally speak without the sniffs or the hiccups interrupting (too badly), Wendy asked, "What's your name, honey?"

"… Lily. Lily Rabbs."

"How old are you?"

"Nine. Almost ten. I'll be ten in March."

Wendy hugged her tightly. "Yes, you will." Brushing back her long ears, she offered the girl another tissue. "Lily, where do you live?"

"Thornwell."

"And where's that?"

"In Canton. Ohio."

"Hmm." _Must be the name of her subdivision._ That fleck of fur-covered-shit had certainly moved her a long way for his fun. "That's quite a distance from here."

Lily rubbed her eyes, then blew her nose again. "Where's here?"

"Northwestern Pennsylvania."

"Oh."

"Do you know how long … he had you?"

"… Um … it's … um … no?"

"Well, today is Friday. What's the last day you remember?"

She blinked and then frowned. "Um … Monday? … Yeah, Monday. We went to church Sunday an' school the next day an' then …" She bit her lower lip and looked away. "He was … waiting. After school. In the underpass."

"I bet your parents are freaking out. Do you know their PA number?"

That bought Wendy a long look. "I don't have parents."

"… ? …"

"Thornwell's an orphanage."

Several lights came on, and Wendy had to stop herself from grinding her teeth. This explained a lot. "I see. Well. Do you, uh, know the number at Thornwell?"

She shook her head.

"Would you like to go back?"

Lily stared at the wall for a few moments and then shrugged. "I guess."

"Did you not like it there?"

"It's stupid. And boring. And the big girls pick on me sometimes."

Wendy's chest got very tight. She controlled her breathing and held Lily close, rocking them gently. "Well then … would you … like to stay with me for a …?"

"Yes."

Chuckling at the speed of that answer, Wendy looked Lily in the eye. "You didn't have to think about _**that**_ very long."

"You're nice." Thin arms wrapped around Wendy's waist. "You're good." And then the thought came through, sharp and clear as crystal, _You're safe!_

The vixen really couldn't keep back a sob then. The unwavering trust this little girl had in her was a new and novel feeling. Uncluttered. Un-tempered. Pure.

"Can I stay with you?"

Cradling the small head, Wendy nodded. "You sure can. As long as you want."

They held that pose for a minute or so, then Lily said, "I'm hungry."

"I thought you might be. Can your belly stand to eat right now? I know sometimes the … the drugs make you want to throw up."

Her little stomach growled loudly.

"Heh. Guess that answers that." She had acquired a few food items earlier and led Lily over to the tiny table beside the single chair. A large bowl sat there, filled with romaine and purple-leaf lettuce, blueberries and strawberries, celery sticks, wax beans, mushrooms, pecans and pine nuts. "I didn't know what you liked, so I got several different things."

It transpired that Lily liked all of it, and she didn't stop until the bowl was empty. Her captor had starved her on top of everything else. When finished, she plopped herself down in Wendy's lap and snuggled up against her chest. "Thank you."

"No problem."

"You're nice."

"You said that before."

"Well you are."

Wendy scooted back until she could lean against the headboard. "Are you tired?"

The girl fidgeted a bit. "Not … tired? But I am sore. And sleepy." She yawned to prove her point. "It's sleepy-dark outside."

"That it is." Wendy regarded the child for a while as she got comfortable. "Why don't we both have a nap? We'll need to leave very early in the morning anyway."

"… Okay." Lily's eyes were already closed, her breathing already slowing as Wendy softly hummed a tune her mother used to sing to her.

A few minutes later she eased Lily off onto the sheet and tucked the coverlet in around her. Then she just sat there, cross-legged, and looked at her for quite some time before sighing and thinking_, This is going to complicate things._

##


	24. Chapter 8 Collisions

**Gone Wylde**

by Clint McInnes

##

_Chapter Seventy-One – Collisions_

##

**The chief danger in life is that you may take too many precautions.**

_**-Alfred Adler**_

##

_** Sunday, December 24, 2017, 3:30pm, Los Angeles, California **_

The misty drizzle that couldn't really be called rain did nothing to lift Wendy's spirits as she stood in front of the Slade Gallery, staring morosely at the locked and darkened doors. _Closed until the 29__th__? Seriously? Don't furs who own places like this go in for holiday specials anymore?_ She shook her head in disgust and plodded back over to the ancient Chevy minivan parked down in the next block. Even on a Sunday afternoon – the day before Christmas! – there was enough traffic to make finding a parking place something of a chore. _Eh. I suppose most big cities are like that, and Los Angeles is famous for being car-choked._

Lily was sucking on another of those long tubes of sugary yogurt when Wendy took her seat. Giving the vixen a solemn stare, she asked, "They not there?"

Shaking her head, Wendy sighed. "Not 'til Friday, looks like."

"Oh."

"Not that I blame 'em. If I had family to spend the holidays with …" She placed both paws on the steering wheel and mulled over her options. Finally shrugging, she offered, "Guess we'll find a hotel instead." The old car sputtered to life, and she pulled out into traffic.

Lily was being uncharacteristically quiet. In getting to know each other over the last couple of days, Wendy had quickly learned that the little doe loved to hear herself talk. She'd provide a running commentary for anything that chanced to happen, from the heavy traffic on the interstate, to the craggy beauty of the Rockies, to the relative merits of whatever radio station might be on at the time, to her preference for beetles over butterflies. Combining a ready wit with a pleasant voice, she quickly proved to be a charming traveling companion.

She also evinced a towering love for ice cream, a treat which had been in chronically short supply at the orphanage. Never did she fail to point out some establishment that might serve it, nor was she shy about asking for some. And Wendy was much too kind-hearted to refuse.

Now, though, she simply sat there, silently. After a few minutes, Wendy asked, "You feeling okay, kiddo?"

Shrug.

"We'll find 'em. It'll just take a little longer than I'd planned, that's all."

Lily stared out the window at the misty street. "Okay."

Diverting the minivan into a store parking lot, Wendy got out her PA and started looking for a likely hotel. This close to her goal, she wasn't as worried about maintaining a low profile; also, she felt that they deserved a little pampering. As it turned out, there was a Kimberton several blocks north and east of their position, and so that's where she headed.

After a couple of blocks of silence, Wendy asked, "Are you _sure_ you feel all right?"

One short nod was her only response.

In the seventeen minutes it took for them to get to the hotel, get checked in, and take the elevator to the ninth floor, Lily hardly said a thing. In the room, she sat on her bed and watched as Wendy unpacked what few things she'd brought with her. (She'd learned the benefits of traveling light.) But as the vixen moved toward the bath with her toiletries, Lily intoned, "You said they were a family. That's right, isn't it?"

Turning abruptly, Wendy blinked in her direction. "They?"

"The one's you … we're goin' to see. The … Sinclairs?"

"Oh! Yes. They're a married couple. They don't have any kids, but they're a family, sure."

Lily looked down and sniffed.

Wendy walked over, dropped her things on her bed, and sat beside the little doe, putting an arm around her and letting her shield down a bit.

She had done just a small bit of exploration into Lily's mindscape while they were still at the motel where she'd found her, and determined that the rabbit girl was a lot tougher than she looked. She'd been through some pretty lean times. But Wendy hadn't really pried, and she knew there was a lot that Lily kept to herself … probably from long practice in self-preservation. "You want to talk about it, sweetie?"

A couple of seconds of stillness crept by before she shook her head.

Wendy gave her a long hug. "Okay. Whenever you're ready."

The little doe squirmed on her lap and turned her head up. Enormous dark-brown eyes regarded her solemnly for a moment. "Miss Stella?"

"… Yes?"

"You have kids?"

It occurred to Wendy at that second, while her throat tightened and her stomach clenched, to wonder why the subject had yet to come up. She drew a couple of deep breaths and said, "I … I did. I had a daughter. She … died. As an infant."

"Oh."

"… It's been a while."

"I'm sorry."

"She … would be a couple years older than you."

Lily leaned in and wrapped her arms around the vixen. "Jus' like Rose."

"… Rose?"

"My sister. Her an' Mom an' Dad … um, they were … together. In the car. Comin' back from the doctor."

The girl had mentioned – once, very briefly – that her parents died in a car wreck. Wendy returned Lily's hug. "I'm sorry."

"Rose was sick." Lily drew the back of her paw across her nose and buried her face in Wendy's ribs.

"That's why you weren't with them?"

"Uh-huh." Her voice came out somewhat muffled. "She had … somethin' wrong with her kidneys. An' other stuff. I never could say the name. They went to the doctor with her twice a week."

Wendy stroked the long ears.

"The p'lice came an' told us. Me an' Rachel."

"Rachel?"

"My babysitter." Dark eyes looked up and sought Wendy's. "We were at Rachel's house. There was a ol' lady with the p'lice. She took … took me to Thornwell. We were in Columbia, but I never got to go back t' the house an' I dunno what happened to my room an' … an' my Aunt Marie … didn't want me." She hid her face again.

Wendy said nothing (she couldn't, not around that huge lump in her throat), simply holding the little girl and running gentle claws through her fur.

"We were gonna have Christmas in Florida. Mom an' Dad had it all set up with a hospital. We were gonna fly. In a plane. An' maybe see Papa Jim."

"… Who's Papa Jim?"

"He's my … he married Gran'ma. Dad's mom. But she died. But Papa Jim sent us pictures an' cards an' stuff anyhow, an' I tried to tell that ol' lady that Papa Jim would want me, but she wouldn' listen an' …" Her voice broke and she stopped trying to talk.

"Oh, Sweetie! I'm so sorry. So sorry." She rocked the little girl for a while, then asked, "Is Papa Jim still in Florida?"

The thin shoulders gave her a helpless shrug.

"Do you know where he lived?"

"Tampa."

"Okay. Do you know his last name?"

"Burridge." Her tear-streaked face came back up. "I told that ol' lady!" she insisted. "I knew his name. It was always on his letters an' stuff, an' Mom would read 'em to me."

"Read them to you?" Wendy frowned. "When … um, how long ago was it that you went to Thornwell?"

"I was seven. So, two years."

"Hmm." Maybe after she got in touch with the Sinclairs, they could locate one James Burridge, late of Tampa. She decided to see what could be done about that, perhaps contact him and find out if he was still interested in a step-granddaughter. If he was still alive, that is.

In the meantime … "Lily?"

"… Hmm?"

"I can't make things better right now. Not yet. Not until I take care of a … big problem of my own. But when I do, I promise you I'll try."

_*sniff*_ "Okay." She tightened her hug. "But I can stay with you now, right?"

"You bet."

"Okay."

"You up for some supper?"

"… Can I have strawberries?"

"If you want, sure."

She stood and pulled on Wendy's paw. "I smelled fruit downstairs when we were checkin' in."

The vixen had to smile at the resilience of youth.

##

_** Christmas Day, 2017, 5:40pm, somewhere in California **_

"I wish bad things would just give it a rest over the holidays."

Matt glanced over at his wife. "So do I, dear."

They turned their attention back to their guest, watching as the huge wolverine crawled cyberspace in a desperate attempt to locate Wendy before the TFN did. He had hacked into the databases of all the major cities between Vermont and Los Angeles that he thought might lie along her route, and had set up a series of facial-recognition programs. Now the remotely-installed bits of software were sifting through untold petabytes of visual data, looking for one particular vixen … a vixen that didn't want to be found.

A long, low growling noise left a slight echo in the room. Diedra smirked and walked over to Karl, tapping his shoulder. He looked up at her, seemingly confused for a second as to who she was, then blinked and said, "Yes? You need something?"

"Not really. But you do."

"… What?"

"Your stomach is growling. Knowing what it takes to keep that carcass of yours going, I thought …"

"Oh. Yes. You're right." He swiveled around and stood. "I've been a little, um …"

"Hyper-focused?"

"That'll do."

"You need some dinner."

"Correct."

"Let's see what Betty has on the menu, shall we?"

##

**The enemy is anybody who's going to get you killed,  
>no matter which side he's on.<br>**_**- Joseph Heller**_

##

_** Tuesday, December 26, 2017, 12:30pm, New Haven, VT **_

Ellen had had neither the stamina nor the inclination to put on a spread for the holiday like the one she and Wendy had hosted for Thanksgiving. She'd just been going through the motions since the vixen left, and that short visit from the Sinclairs the previous Friday hadn't done a _**thing**_ to ease her mind. He had struck her as _extremely_ competent, and he did seem to be quite concerned for Wendy, which only made Ellen worry that much harder. So she'd spent the weekend with her mother and from one to three aunts (and from two to seven cousins), and Christmas had been a small, casual affair.

Today, though, she felt like being alone.

There was one couple booked for the late slot this evening, and their desired meal of salmon steak and spinach puffs left Ellen with plenty of time this afternoon to just knock around the huge, old house. The fish was marinating in a pan in the refrigerator, and she wouldn't have to do anything else in the kitchen until almost seven. The idea of calling up Lieutenant Smoot ran through her head a couple of times, but she finally rejected it. She wasn't ready yet (if she ever would be) to find someone to replace Wendy, and her present level of melancholy precluded a purely physical relationship. So she sat in the library, an old collection of ghost stories open on her lap, enjoying a generous mug of hot cocoa.

The sound of the doorbell made her jump, and she blinked rapidly in that direction. _Who in the world …?_ Laying the book and her mug on the side table, she trotted toward the front door.

There were two furs on the porch, and through the small slot beside the door she could see that they both wore long, black trench coats, fur hats, and dark glasses. "Yes? Who are you?"

The near one, who happened to be several centimeters taller than the other one, glanced over at her eyes, reached into his coat, and pulled out a badge and an ID card. "FIA, ma'am. We're looking for Wendy Wylde."

_FIA? What the hell?_ "Um … Wendy isn't here."

"I see. Can you tell us when she will be back?"

"… As far as I know, she isn't _coming_ back."

The two furs looked at each other. "Well, then, in that case, do you know where we can find Ellen Vison."

"Uh … I'm Ellen Vison. What's this about?"

"We understand that Stefan Surinkx was a guest here a few days ago."

"Stef … Oh! Oh, you mean … that guy that … the one the sheriff told us about. That …" She swallowed hard, twice. "… he was a member of the Knights of the Pure Strain."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Okay. What about him?"

"We have a few questions about his stay here that we would like to clear up, if we might."

"Oh. Well, there's not really much I can tell you. He was pretending to be somebody else."

"We are aware of that, ma'am. We have the sheriff's report."

"… Well, then, I don't know what else I can add. I told him everything I knew. So did Wendy."

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, and not to put the local law enforcement in a bad light, but the sheriff only did a cursory job of interrogation. He didn't know the right questions to ask."

Ellen sighed and stood up straight, rubbing her forehead. _The day after Christmas? Don't these guys have a life?_ "Mr. … Strong, was it?"

"Special Agent Strong, yes."

"Sir … that was a … a _really_ trying experience. It sort of left both of us … traumatized. If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it today. Can I schedule a time to come over to your office later in the week?"

"We aren't from the Burlington office, ma'am. And our investigation is very time-sensitive. I'm afraid I really must insist."

_Damn government agency drones._ She sighed again and unlocked the door. "Fine. Let's get it over with. We can talk in the libr-"

Each of the furs grabbed one of her arms. The one she had been talking to gave her a predatory smirk. "I don't think so. We have a better place to talk. More private."

In the space of half a second, several dozen things clicked in Ellen's mind, and she realized with a cold sense of dread exactly who these guys were. Wasting no time, she brought her left foot up in a sizzling kick to the shorter one's face, knocking him back and away with a howl of pain. Then she planted her left fist in "Agent Strong's" throat, leaving him in a gasping heap on the floor. The shorter one was getting back up, but a side kick to the jaw put him down for the count. She had turned back to other and was about to do the same for him when there was a muted _**crack**_ and a blinding pain in her leg knocked her over. She grabbed at her calf, shocked to see blood welling from a hole there, and totally confused as to how it had happened.

"Our intelligence indicated that you had taken a few karate classes."

She looked up into the face of a fennec fox. He stood just outside the door, and was pointing a pistol at her. The silencer made it look bigger than it really was.

"It would seem that they were somewhat more advanced than I had thought." He glanced back and forth between the two furs in trench coats, and made a _tsk-tsk_ sound. "Really, Samuels, taken down by a _girl?_ A girl _half_ your size? You will _never_ live this down."

Samuels, aka Agent Strong, got heavily to his feet, and coughed several times as he walked over to Ellen. His face a dark mask of malevolence, he grabbed her by her shirt and hauled her upright. She gasped at the pressure that put on her injured leg, and nearly collapsed. "Bet you thought that was funny, didn't you, bitch?"

Ellen could only whimper. She had _**no idea**_ gunshots hurt this much!

The fennec nodded to Samuels. "Kindly see to it that she will cause us no more difficulty."

"With pleasure." He drew back a scarred fist …

##

_** 10:42pm, Los Angeles, California **_

Lily crashed not far past nine, and Wendy had spent the last hour and a half logged in to the Kimberton's server. She'd thought that, perhaps, given her current proximity to the Sinclairs, she might have better luck coming up with **something** related to his whereabouts.

No joy. Any number of fan sites – including his 'official' fan club – had copious information on his paintings, when and where he'd gotten his start, theories about his techniques, who owned which pieces, estimations of his net worth (numbers that impressed the hell out of Wendy), and on and on and on and on _**and on**_ about his professional career. Details concerning his personal life, though, were significantly less common than legitimate Bigfoot sightings. The Gallery had a slight variation of the blurb his own website used, and stated only that he 'was rumored to live in California'.

_Well __**that**__ narrows it down._

Frustrated with her lack of progress, she had retired to the hotel bar. As it happened, they had an excellent 18-year Laphroaig, and she was contemplating the third shot of her second flight when her PA vibrated. Frowning, she pulled it out and checked the number. _Damn it, Ellen, I told you this was only for emergencies! _ With a huff of exasperation, she flicked the screen to answer the call … and stared with wide eyes at a totally unfamiliar face.

The fennec fox cocked his head and said, "Wendy Wylde?"

"… . . . … How'd you get … what … where's Ellen?"

"Ah. Then you _**are**_ Ms. Wylde. Excellent." His grin was one of the more disquieting things she had ever seen. "Or should I say, Mrs. Gulo?"

Chillingly certain that she knew the answer to her question (in broad terms), she nevertheless demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

"My name would mean nothing to you. However, I believe I have something of interest that you may consider important."

"… Huh?"

He motioned with one paw to someone off-screen. A much larger fur stepped into view, and held up …

Wendy fumbled the PA badly, but managed to avoid dropping it. Clutching the device in numb fingers, she stared at … yes, that _**had**_ to be Ellen. Her gut twisted to the point that she could barely hold her gorge down.

The fennec's face filled the screen. "She was most determined not to give us any information."

"You … fucking … bastard."

From a few meters away, the puma tending the bar cocked an eye in her direction. He'd been more than happy to have such a gorgeous attraction parked on one of his stools, knowing it would increase his custom. And, truly, a few of the males scattered around the large room – and lately one cute feline femme – had come up and offered her drinks … but for some reason she had been completely uninterested, and shot them all down in short order. He figured she was coming off a toxic relationship; he'd seen this sort of behavior many times. Maybe this call was from that individual? He kept an ear pointed in her direction.

"I was initially impressed that a friend, even a good friend, would so obstinately resist my efforts at interrogation. However, it eventually came to light that you and she were …" His lip curled in distaste. "… _**more**_ than simple friends. One must wonder what your husband thinks of that. Did he even _suspect_ before marrying you that you were a walking perversion? A demon in fur, rutting in sin with your bitch?"

Wendy's breath grew rapid and shallow, her head light. Her world swirled in until nothing existed apart from the image of the ghoul on her PA.

A dry chuckle escaped as the fennec licked his flews. "No matter. That only made the quest for the truth so much more … _enjoyable_."

In the grip of an emotional tsunami she could barely comprehend, Wendy was unable to make any sort of rational response.

"So, now, what you will do, if you wish to preserve what is left of your willowy _**lover**_," He practically spat the word, "is tell me your current location."

Wendy quickly set the PA face-down on the bar, dropped her head into both paws, and stared in panic at the lights reflected in the polished wood, furiously racking her poor brain. _What? What do I do? Ellen! Got to … got to save her! Got to …_

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she carefully grounded and centered, controlling her breathing. _Okay. They wanted my location, but what they got was my PA number. And Ellen … oh, God, Ellen! Ellen, you poor, stupid, stubborn, wonderful girl! _The image of the shattered mink hung in front of her face like an impenetrable miasma_. They … they don't know where I am. That's what they wanted. Right? If Ellen held out that long before giving them my number, that's probably all they got from her. They don't know … don't know about my … perks. My abilities. Probably._

A plan took hazy form in her mind. She picked up the PA. As she had known he would be, the fennec was waiting on her answer. Drawing a stuttered breath, she said, "I'm in California."

He raised a brow. "Indeed? You have traveled a long way in a short time." He grinned. He actually _grinned_. "We shall have to arrange a meeting place somewhere between …"

"No. You … you take Ellen to Burlington, _right now_, and you leave her at the Regional Health Center."

"… What?"

"You can be there in twenty minutes."

"Why would I …"

"I will …" Her breath hitched and she swallowed hard. "… I'll call the hospital in thirty minutes." She had to swallow again and clear her throat. "If Ellen is there and has been checked in … I will call you back. Then we can meet."

A mask of disapproval dropped over his features. "You are hardly in a position to dictate the terms of our …"

"Take it or leave it. I'm here." She knew she was taking a calculated risk, but she had to make sure … "I want Ellen … attended to as quickly as possible, and … and they have an excellent trauma center at Burlington RHC."

He studied her face carefully. A long-time student of other furs' emotions and reactions, he could tell she was just barely holding herself together. "And if I refuse?"

"You will never find me."

"You and I both know, Mrs. Gulo, that _that_ is a lie."

"So you say. If … those who told me about you … weren't just blowing smoke out their collective ass, you do have enough resources so that you might find me. Eventually." She licked her lips. "But it will take you a great deal more time and effort doing it that way, and you can't … can't know for sure." She concentrated on keeping her heart rate somewhere south of ridiculous. "If you want to do this quickly, you'll do it my way."

He stared at her for three slow breaths. "What guarantee do I have that you will keep your end of the bargain?"

"Look. I'm not stupid." A hard swallow worked its way down her throat. "Right now … you have Ellen. I am … I'm hoping that if you have me, you won't have any use for her anymore and … you'll just … leave her alone." She drew a stuttering breath. "I don't have any doubts at all about what you bastards would do if I _**don't**_ hold up my end. Her life wouldn't be worth a fart in a hurricane."

He pursed his lips, considering. "That much is true." His gaze flicked off to the side for a moment while Wendy sweated bullets. "Very well. Entirely aside from your colorful language, you make a valid point. We shall take her to the hospital." He checked the time. "I expect to hear back from you in _exactly_ thirty-five minutes." His black eyes bored into hers. "Otherwise, when we do find you – and please understand that we will – I will be wearing a _vest_ made from your lover's _pelt_." His image flicked off.

The vixen all but collapsed, her trembling paws' death-grip on the edge of the bar being the only thing keeping her from toppling off the stool.

A tawny paw appeared on the bar in her field of vision. "Miss? You okay? Can I get you something?"

She looked up, focused on the puma, and drew a ragged breath … but she had no idea what to say to him.

"Did somefur threaten you? You need me to call the cops?"

Quickly she shook her head. "No. Not … that won't be … necessary." _Think, Wendy!_

The bartender's eyes told her plainly that he was none too sure of that, but he had enough experience to recognize when a situation was none of his concern. "Okay. You need a cab?"

_Cab. _Her mind fell into the natural progression.

_Car. _

_Minivan. _

_Travel. … _Her eyes widened alarmingly._ … __**LILY**__! HOLY __**SHIT**__!_

She swallowed hard, again, and answered, "Um … no. Thank you. I've …" Sliding off the barstool, she fished in her jeans pocket and then dropped four twenties on the bar. "I've gotta go."

"After two flights in less than half an hour? I don't think so." He held out a paw. "Let's have the keys. I'll get you a cab. On the house."

Her brain seemed to kick back into gear at that point. Pasting a grateful smile on her face, she said, "I appreciate your concern, but I don't even have my keys on me. I'm staying here at the hotel. And I don't think I need a car to get to the ninth floor."

"Ah. Well, okay, then." That seemed to relax him a good bit. "In that case, have a pleasant evening."

"Thanks," she tossed over her shoulder as she made her exit.

As soon as she was sure he couldn't see her, she broke into a sprint and disappeared up the nearest stairwell. _Lily! What am I gonna do with Lily? I can't take HER into a meeting with a bunch of terrorists! _Ellen was completely in the dark as to the secret identity Wendy was using, and Stella d'Arc surely wouldn't show up on any database the TFN was likely to have.

_Would she?_

There was no way to know for sure. This was as bad a dearth of information as she had when she went after Karl. _But if … if they beat Ellen up … __that__ badly, just to get my number …_ It was worth consideration. Had that little bastard known about Stella, he would have bragged about it.

But Stella's information had her on record as having visited Libya at the same time as Karl's rescue. That probably counted for something. Except _**that**_ Stella was black, and _**this**_ Stella is red and …

… and this was making her head hurt.

Having reached the ninth floor, she eased into her room and padded over to the bed. Lily had gone to sleep with the bathroom light on and the door open. (Wendy picked up on the little girl's aversion to closed doors very early in their association, and made accommodations where possible.) Standing there for a few minutes, the vixen reviewed her options.

They weren't promising.

She could set Lily up in the room with a few movies and books and tell her to stay put until she got back. The downside of that was that she wasn't guaranteed to _**get**_ back, and then what would happen to the girl? Nothing good, of that Wendy was certain. Besides which, she might not stay put in the first place.

She didn't have time for anything fancy. Checking her timepiece, she saw that she had another twenty-four minutes before she needed to call the hospital. Shaking her head ruefully, she took out her PA and looked up the number. Timing was going to be a bitch if she didn't have everything lined up.

That done, she fell into a chair and stared off out the window. What, practically, would she be able to do? Assuming they did take Ellen to Burlington, she'd give them her location and then either they would fly out to get her … or send some local goons. That would be worse. Given a few minutes to mull it over, she figured the best course of action (if the bastard showed up himself) would be to just kill all of them. Doubtless they would want to meet in a private place …

But what if she … couldn't? What if there were too many of them? What if …

_No!_

Plans were all well and good, but reacting to the situation on the ground was usually better. _Make your goals in stone and your plans in sand_. She'd heard that at a seminar several years past, and it seemed good advice.

So. Goal Number One: Make sure Ellen gets treatment.

That was in progress. She'd make sure of it shortly.

Goal Number Two: Keep Lily safe.

A look at the desk clock told her that only three minutes had passed since last time. She went to the bathroom and got a drink, emptied her bladder, washed her paws, and returned to her seat. That used up two more minutes.

Damn it.

Maybe she could set the time of their meeting. Offer to let them choose the place …

No, wait. That's not how …

A deep sigh worked its way out of her. _I __**REALLY**__ don't like all this spy-vs-spy shit._

Lily needed somewhere safe to stay.

Wendy sat up, blinking.

Somewhere safe.

It didn't have to be somewhere official. Just … a safe place. A haven, even a temporary one.

Jumping up, the vixen zipped over to her largest bag and rifled through it, coming up with a wad of cash, which she quickly counted. _Okay. That should work …_

She sat there, turning her new plan over in her mind, as the last minutes ticked by. After calling the hospital and determining that, yes, a severely wounded mink had just been admitted and was in the ICU, she hit the return dial on Ellen's phone. The fennec picked up on the first ring. "Well?"

"Do you have a map of L.A.?"

"What do you think? Do not waste my time."

"Fine. At 1830 hours tomorrow, I'll be at the parking lot just west of the dam at the southern end of the Santa Anita Wash. That's a few klicks northeast of the city proper."

He conversed with someone for a minute in a language she didn't know, finally turning back to her. "The location is acceptable. We may or may not be able to get there by that time."

"I'll wait."

"Yes. You will."

"Can I ask you something?"

"… Why not."

"Why me?"

He barked a laugh. "That is one of the more ridiculous questions I have …"

"Seriously. You've obviously gone to a lot of … _effort_ … to find me. What do you hope to gain?"

"I will gladly explain everything, once we meet. Do not fail to be at that place." His image winked out.

Slowly sliding the PA back into her pocket as she stood, Wendy ambled over to the window and stared out at the city lights. It was almost eleven thirty. If she got to bed now, she could get six hours of sleep … if she could go to sleep, which might be problematic.

Would it be better to sleep now, or to canvass the area now and sleep later, afterward? A sudden yawn and her tired, scratchy eyes answered that for her. Besides, her mental abilities always worked better when bolstered with rest. Nodding to herself, she began to strip for bed.

##

_** Wednesday, December 27, 2017, 6:20am **_

Two guys out checking the mail. Four femmes jogging in a group. Lights on in maybe three quarters of the houses. Those big rolling garbage bins sitting out at the end of each driveway. The neighborhood, a well-established middle-class place, wouldn't have seemed unusual in any state in the country. Wendy drove through it slowly, making sure she didn't miss any streets.

This was the fifth subdivision she'd been through, and she was beginning to get discouraged.

However, two more cul-de-sacs and a circular court later, she pulled up and stopped in front of a brick split-level. Turning off the motor, she sat quietly, staring at the unassuming house, her empathic field cranked up high enough to give her the beginnings of a headache. After about five minutes, she nodded to herself, entered the address into her GPS, started the old minivan and headed back to her hotel.

Now she just had to wake up Lily and … _explain_ to her how things were going to have to be for a while. That was a conversation she really wasn't looking forward to.

##

_** 9:15am **_

Dolores Free smiled as she closed her PA. Her husband, the sweetie, always called her at his 9:10 break (even if he did have to work through the end-of-year maintenance shutdown), and it always brightened her morning. A slight wave of melancholy, quickly shrugged off, came on the heels of that thought. He had been so patient, so supportive through the various attempts at conception, waiting for her to come to grips with what all the doctors had said …

A dismissive shake of her head and a quick rub down the long length of her ears dispelled that train of thought. It wasn't going to happen and the rabbit doe had accepted that. Pretty much. But it still hurt.

Then, just last week, he had (almost casually) brought up the topic of adoption during dinner. It hadn't really surprised her. He was adopted himself, and had nothing but good things to say about it. They had discussed it as a possibility before they even got married. She'd just never considered it seriously because …

Sighing again, she chastised herself. It really was time to put away her childish illusions and face things pragmatically, as she'd been telling herself for a while now. She went to the kitchen and got another cup of coffee, then contemplated the adoption agency's brochure that had been lying, untouched, on the counter for the last four days. Finally picking it up, she meandered over to the table and pulled out a chair. Halfway through the first page, her doorbell rang.

A curious frown dominated her features as she walked out of the kitchen, down the short hallway, and into the 'front room'. She wasn't expecting guests, or any packages, and they had a NO SOLICITING sign right there by the door (a couple of brands of religious proselytizers had gotten very persistent a year or so ago). Peering at her visitor through the small half-round window near the top of the door did nothing to alleviate her confusion. The petite vixen on her stoop didn't seem to be carrying anything, and was waiting there with a neutral expression. Making sure the chain was fastened, Dolores opened the door a crack. "Yes?"

"Mrs. Free, my name is Stella d'Arc. I would like to talk to you about your family."

_Mrs. Free?_ "You don't look familiar. How do you know my name?"

"Through Hearts and Minds."

"… The adoption agency?"

"Yes."

"Ooookay. What's this about?"

"May I come in? I am a bit pressed for time."

"… Why?"

"Because although I know about your connection with Hearts and Minds, I don't work with them. I have an independent scenario that you can help me with."

"… I can help? How?"

"That's what I'd like to explain."

Dolores thought about it a few seconds and shrugged. The situation was unusual enough to pique her interest, and the other woman didn't look threatening at all. She took the chain off and opened the door.

"Thank you," said Wendy, masking her extreme relief. "I believe I can state without fear of contradiction that you won't regret it."

"Well, you haven't really told me anything yet."

"Let's fix that, then."

##

_** 9:45am **_

Dolores sat back and stared at the vixen. Then she picked up her empty coffee cup and worried it between her paws. "That's a heck of a story."

"I know."

"So … you've just … sort of _**ended up**_ with this girl. And now you have to leave, and you can't take her with you?"

"In a nutshell."

"But … I'm still confused. How'd you ever get _**me**_ into this deal? I never even _**talked**_ to anybody at the agency!"

"You can call it divine intervention if you like."

"… I beg your pardon?"

"I was led here." This statement, in keeping with _**most**_ of what she had told the rabbit, was not _exactly_ true, but it contained enough truth to lead Dolores into the false assumption that Wendy needed. "I didn't know you existed until this morning. But I needed … _**Lily**_ needed a haven. A safe place. And this is it."

"I don't … know how you can know that."

"I just do." Wendy's examination of Dolores's mindscape had been all the proof she needed. Now she just had to tweak things a little to get the rabbit to go along. "I've learned to trust these instincts … these leadings. You _**are**_ a good furson. You can and will take care of Lily in the way that she needs." She shrugged. "I can't tell you how I know it. I just do."

Dolores had a thousand-meter stare going. "… I'll need to talk to my husband."

"Pete will be in favor of it."

Her gaze adjusted to the vixen. "How do you … oh. You just know?"

Wendy nodded. "One other thing, though."

"… What?"

"Lily had a small trust. It isn't much, but if things work out between you – which is something I _**don't**_ know – it will cover all your adoption expenses with a little left over." Wendy opened her reticule and pulled out a cloth bag, passing it to Dolores. "It's a bit over fifteen thousand dollars."

Dolores nearly dropped the bag. "Fifteen thousand!"

"Yes. And it's yours to use for Lily's benefit."

"But … but … you don't … you can't know that I won't just … I dunno, keep it and kick Lily out!"

Wendy gave her a gentle smile. "Yeah. I do. You would never do that. Not in a million years."

The rabbit looked away, her muzzle fluffing in a blush.

"I'll go get Lily now."

"… Okay."

"I'll be back in about half an hour. You can leave Pete a message if you want, but I can tell you right now he'll be all for it."

"Okay."

Wendy patted her paw. "It'll get better, and I promise it will make more sense later."

"Stella …"

"Yes?"

"What's it like?"

"What is what like?"

"Being … that close … to the Almighty?"

Wendy grinned, amazed that she could tell such bald-faced lies to this femme with a clear conscience. "It's hard to explain."

"I'll bet."

"See you in a few."

##

_** 6:15pm, Santa Anita Wash Dam **_

Wendy suspected very strongly that the little son-of-a-bitch who had beat the living hell out of Ellen already had this place under surveillance. She'd been sitting here in a rented sub-compact (acquired as Wendy Wylde, since she didn't want any information about her minivan to turn up the name of Stella d'Arc) for a quarter-hour. That was enough time for her anger to reassert its presence and get the waters troubled. Meanwhile, the only activity had been a single SUV that passed by on the way up to the Wash. There was no one in any of the pawful of buildings scattered beside the narrow road, no other cars in the primitive parking area. She didn't know if the dam needed any kind of regular maintenance, but if it did, it was being neglected.

A pair of black sedans appeared in the distance and she sat up smartly, watching as they slowly drove up and into the parking area, rolling to a stop a dozen meters away. Two large furs got out of the near one and stood beside it, their paws clasped in front of them, and stared at her, waiting.

Another wave of frustration washed over her. She hadn't known if the fennec would come here or not, but her best guess now put him somewhere else. If he _had_ come along, he'd be standing there with that shit-eating grin turned her way now. She eased her empathic field out toward the cars, detecting a total of six furs, all of whom had the distinct flavor of 'flunky'.

_Shit_.

Oh, well. Nothing for it, then. She rested her forehead on the steering wheel for a moment while she eased the belt with her throwing knives out from under her shirt and slid it beneath the seat. It was important that they view her as emotionally defeated, and that was exactly what she picked up then. Well and good. They would take her to the fennec, and then she would play it by ear. She retained her ceramic knife, strapped to the inside of her left thigh in a cloth sheath, and hoped they wouldn't pat her down that thoroughly. The loose slacks she'd chosen – not to mention the long quilted coat over her sweater – hid everything perfectly.

She got out of the car and walked stiffly over to the first sedan. Neither fur spoke, but one of them open the rear door. She looked inside, looked back at him, sighed dejectedly, and climbed in. The other guy walked around the car and got in on her right. The one who held the door sat to her left. They left her very little room to maneuver, and counted on their size (each one easily massed twice what she did) to intimidate her. She wouldn't have needed her mental abilities to pick up on _that_ plan. She'd have to make sure they believed her thoroughly cowed, despite the fact that some three or four ways to kill them both inside five seconds skipped across her mind.

No one spoke to her. They headed back down the narrow road, and eventually got onto the freeway.

Finally Wendy asked, "Where are we going?" She didn't expect them to tell her – nor was she disappointed – but she carefully monitored their minds for an image. All three of the furs in the sedan instantly thought of their destination, and she schooled her features not to react.

The fur to her left didn't look at her, but he said, "Does it matter?"

She didn't answer, being busy instead wondering why they were driving all the way to Las Vegas.

##

_** 6:51pm,elsewhere **_

A soft _ping_ made Karl jump, and jerked Diedra's head around. Swiftly he called up the information, and yelled, "Sinclair!"

Matt _poofed_ into the room. "What?! You find her?"

Karl pointed at the screen where Wendy's image dominated. "That's security footage from a rental car company in Los Angeles!"

"Whoa!" said Diedra. "She's not far away at all!"

"What's the address?" asked Matt, staring intently at the monitor.

Karl gave him the particulars. Seventeen seconds later they were standing behind the building. Nine seconds after that, Karl was looming over the rental clerk.

The nondescript canine, thoroughly intimidated by the intensity of the trio in front of him, was only too happy to give them everything he had on the pretty vixen who'd rented from him earlier.

Matt studied the readout. "You have that one tracked?"

He nodded. "All our cars have chips." Typing on his terminal briefly, he nodded again and turned it toward them. "She's right there."

Matt raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Where is 'there'?"

Karl said, "That's the Santa Anita Wash. I know that place."

"Great. Let's go." They trooped back outside and around behind the agency.

Less than two minutes passed before they appeared beside one of the buildings near the dam. Karl spotted the car instantly and ran toward it. Matt decided to let him take the lead with this phase of things, unsure as to his mental stability just then.

Finding the door unlocked, Karl opened it, then paused, leaned inside and took a deep breath. . . . . .

_. . . . . her laugh echoed in the hospital lobby . . . . ._

_. . . . . swift blows as staffs danced in the cold . . . . ._

_. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a quick tongue flicked beside his mouth . . . . ._

_**. . . . . damp fur shivered against his . . . . .**_

_. . . . . a ragged voice gasping out his name in the dark . . . . ._

So quickly did he jump back that he hit the top of his snout on the doorframe.

"Gulo?" called Matt, "you okay?"

He gave his head a few violent shakes and centered his focus again, yelling back, "I'll live." Then he (somewhat hesitantly) stuck his head back in the car.

Her scent was strong and recent. Carefully feeling the seat let him know that she had been sitting there within the last forty-five minutes. The glove box told him nothing. Ditto the console, where the rental agreement was stowed.

Steeling himself, he took another inquisitive sniff.

_Leather. Metal._

A frown came to rest on his forehead. Two more sniffs had him reaching under the seat, where he found her throwing knife belt. Puzzled, he withdrew and stood, and just stared at it.

Diedra elbowed Matt and gave her head a jerk in Karl's direction. He shrugged and they walked over. "Gulo? Find something? This is her car, right?"

Karl nodded, and held out the belt. "What the hell would she be doing with this? She doesn't know how to … how to …" His eyes drifted away.

The couple glanced at each other. Diedra cleared her throat and asked, "Did you remember something else?"

He seemed to be in his own world again. Bringing the belt up to his muzzle, he held it close and breathed in …

_**. . . . . Her breath a little ragged, she offered,  
>"May warmth and affection and peace<br>attend us all the days of our lives together."**_

_**He answered,  
>"And may our love grow as we grow,<br>unfold as our lives unfold,  
>and strengthen as we know each other more fully." . . . . .<strong>_

He sank to his knees, the belt dropping from nerveless fingers.

Matt and Diedra were at his side instantly. "Karl!" she cried, "What's wrong?"

"Did something hit you, guy? You get a memory?"

Turning hollow eyes to the other wolverine, he whispered, "We're married."

Diedra gasped, gripped his fur, and said, "You _**do**_ remember!"

"We're … we're married. Wendy … is … my wife."

"Hot damn!" yelled Matt. "His brain's coming back together!"

"… My … wife. I have a wife." He looked at the belt again, picked it up, and held it to his chest. "Wendy is my wife. She … loves me."

"That's what we've been trying to tell you."

The huge fur sprang to his feet, all his sensory augments flashing to peak effectiveness. He walked around beside the car, then followed a trail to a spot some ten meters distant. Mumbling, he said, "Two furs … two cars … she was … not frightened … worried." He snapped up and stared at Matt. "She went with them."

"… Huh?"

"Sinclair, my wife got into a car with someone she didn't want to go with … someone she didn't trust."

"… Crap. Why would she do that?"

"I don't know. But I'm about to find out."

**##**

End of Chapter Seventy-One


End file.
